t     ,:>, 


L!    HAFT. 


UN- 

o 

S/ 


EGO 


I  tell  you,  Doc',  it's  a  great  an'  awful  thing  to  be  inherited. 


SONNY'S   FATHER 


IN  WHICH  THE  FATHER,  NOW  BECOME 
GRANDFATHER,  A  KINDLY  OBSERVER  OF 
LIFE  AND  A  GENIAL  PHILOSOPHER,  IN  HIS 
DESULTORY  TALKS  WITH  THE  FAMILY  DOC- 
TOR, CARRIES  ALONG  THE  STORY  OF  SONNY. 

BY 

RUTH  MCENERY  STUART 


Author  of  "  Sonny,  a  Christmas  Guest,"  '''Napoleon  Jackson,  the 

Gentleman  of  the  Plush  Rocker,"  "Aunt  Amity's 

Silver  Wedding,"  etc. 


Illustrated 


NEW    YORK 

THE    CENTURY   CO. 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published,  October,  IQIQ 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  by 
C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co.,  Boston 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  A  MISFIT  CHRISTMAS         ....  3 

II.  WEALTH  AND  RICHES       ....  29 

III.  THE  WOMEN 59 

IV.  THE  SONG  IN  THE  TREE-TOPS  .  97 
V.  THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR          .         .         .  129 

VI.  KEEPING  UP  WITH  THE  PROCESSION            .  161 

VII.  ABSENT  TREATMENT  AND  SECOND  SIGHT    .  190 

VIII.  LIGHT  219 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  I    TELL    YOU,  DOC',  IT 'S    A    GREAT    AN*    AWFUL     THING 

TO  BE  INHERITED  " Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

"  THAT  's  THE  WAY  ALL  THE  ORPHANS  'LL  BE  TOOK  CARE 

OF  WHEN  WHEN  THE  MILLENNIUM  COMES  "        .       44 

"  THE  CHIEF  O-RATER  " 62 

THE  MOTHERS'  MEETING 68 

"  HER  BICYCLE  WAS  THE  FIRST  EVER  RID   DOWN  THE 

SlMPKINSVILLE  ROAD  " 76 

"  LOCATED  so  THET  YOU  MIGHT  BE  LOOKIN'  RIGHT  AT  IT 

AN'  NOT  SEE  IT  " 106 

"  EVERY  LITTLE  ORPHAN  ASYLUM  CHILD  is  IN  A  SENSE 

WAITIN'  OUTSIDE  OUR  GATES  "  .        .        .        .        .     138 

"  HOW  CAN  ANY  INSTITUTIONAL  CHILD  HAVE  A  FAIR 

CHANCE  O'  BEIN*  FULLY  HUMAN?  "  .        .        .        -     156 

"  WHEN  THAT  HEATHEN  CHINEE  COME  TH'OUGH  "       .     184 

"  AN'  SO  WE  SET  IT  OUT.      AN"  NOW,  I  *M  GLAD  WE  DID  "       196 

"  Do  YOU  RICOLLEC*   HOW  I  TURNED  MY  DUMB    FACE   TO 

YOU    IN    WONDERMENT?  " 220 


SONNY'S  FATHER 


SONNY'S  FATHER 
i 

A   MISFIT    CHRISTMAS 


MS. 


ELL,  well,  well!  Ef  there  ain't 
the  doctor!  At  the  steps  befo' 
I  discovered  him !  That  's  what 
I  get  for  standin'  on  step-lad- 
ders at  my  time  o '  life.  Ef  you  'd  'a '  been 
a  brigand  you  'd  'a'  had  me,  Doc  —  both 
hands  up. 

I  was  tempted  o'  the  heathen  by  these 
big  Japanese  persimmons.  Here,  lay  these 
on  the  banister-rail  for  me,  Doc  —  an'  look 
out!  Don't  taste  'em,  'lessen  you  want 
yo'  mouth  fixed  to  whistle.  That  puckerin' 
trick  runs  in  the  family. 

Yas,  they  're  smooth  an'  handsome,  but 
gimme  the  little  ol'  woods  persimmon, 
seedy  an'  wrinkled  an'  sugared  by  the 
frost,  character  lines  all  over  its  face  — 
same  as  a  good  ol'  Christian. 

3 


4  SONNY'S  FATHER 

Merry  Christmas,  ol'  friend!  —  ef  it  is 
three  days  after. 

This  first  shake  is  for  "  Merry  Christ- 
mas," an'  this  is  for  thanks  for  yo'  Christ- 
mas gif'.  It  did  seem  to  be  about  the 
only  one  thet  amounted  —  no,  I  won 't  say 
that,  neither.  They  was  all  well-meant  an' 
kind,  an'  I  've  been  on  the  edge  of  cryin' 
all  day,  thess  to  think  —  although  — 

But  come  along  into  my  room  an'  see 
the  things.  Oh,  yas;  I  reckon  it  was  a 
sort  of  "  ovation  "  to  celebrate  my  sev- 
enty-fifth Christmas  this-a-way  an'  to 
make  it  a  surprise  party,  at  that. 

It  seems  thet  Mary  Elizabeth,  Sonny's 
wife,  give  out  along  in  the  summer  thet 
this  was  to  be  my  seventy-fifth  Christmas, 
an'  invited  accordin'ly  —  all  the  village 
an'  country-side.  She  jest  give  it  out  pro- 
miscuous, tellin'  everybody  thet  the  only 
person  thet  wasn't  to  know  about  it  was 
me  —  on  pain  of  not  havin'  it.  That  was 
what  you  might  call  a  stroke  of  ingenious- 
ness.  They  ain't  a  person  in  the  county 
thet  would  miss  havin'  an  unusual  thing 
like  that,  an'  so  the  secret  was  pretty 
safe-t. 

She  never  wrote  no  invitations.    She  'd 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  5 

thess  tell  every  person  she  met  to  instruct 
the  next  one.  So  nobody's  feelin's  was 
hurted.  She  declares  she  never  hinted 
about  presents;  but  it  must  'a'  been  in 
her  voice  an'  her  intimations  unbeknownst 
to  herself,  for  not  a  mother's  son  or 
daughter  come  empty-handed. 

'Sh-h-h!  I  notice  the  sewin '-machine 
has  stopped  an '  she  might  — 

But  I  tell  you  here  -  -  'sh !  —  I  say,  I  tell 
you,  doc,  I  can't  turn  around  in  my  own 
room.  An'  sech  ridic —  I  tell  you,  7  never 
was  so  miserable  in  my  life! 

Oh,  of  course,  they  's  exceptions. 
There  's  yo'  present,  f'r  instance.  Sech 
a  pocket-knife  as  that  —  why,  it  's  a  he- 
redity! I  Ve  got  it  down  in  my  will 
a 'ready  —  that  is  to  say,  I  Ve  got  it  codi- 
ciled  to  my  namesake.  What  you  say? 
Oh,  no ;  I  would  n  't  have  no  child  named 
Deuteronomy,  the  way  Sonny  an'  I  was. 
I  'm  come  to  a  reelization  of  it. 

He  an'  Mary  Elizabeth,  why,  they  of- 
fered it  through  excess  of  devotional 
feelin'.  I  see  you  recall  the  circumstance 
now.  He  's  named  after  a  certain  auburn- 
haired  doctor  —  an'  yet,  as  I  say,  he's 
my  namesake  —  named  something  else, 


6  SONNY  S   FATHER 

for  my  sake.     We  jes  call   'im  Doc  for 
short. 

Yas,  he  '11  get  that  knife,  though  I  hope 
to  season  it  a  little  an'  get  the  blades  wore 
down  some  before  he  receives  it. 

It  was  real  white  in  you  to  send  sech  a 
thing  as  that.  A  person  might  'a'  sup- 
posed thet  you  'd  'a'  sent  a  fresh  box  o' 
porous  plasters,  or  maybe  a  bottle  o '  lithia 
tab- 
Why,  no;  of  co'se  I  didn't  fear  it. 
How  could  I  —  an'  be  surprised!  But  ef 
I  had  been  anticipatin'  the  party,  I  'd  'a' 
thought  o'  yo'  drug-sto'  show-case,  an' 
they  ain't  never  anything  appetizin'  in  it 
to  me.  You  cert'n'y  deserve  credit  not 
even  to  select  sech  a  thing  as  a  hammock 
or  a  head-rest,  although  ef  you  had,  I  'd 
never  'a'  questioned  it. 

Yes,  I  got  a  few  head-rests,  some  stuffed 
with  hops  an'  some  with  balsam,  an'  one 
poor  neck-roll  perfumed  with  something 
turrible  —  asaf etida,  I  reckon.  I  've  laid 
that  out  to  sun.  Mary  Elizabeth  says 
they  're  good  to  ward  off  whoopin '-cough, 
an'  I  told  her  I  'd  rather  have  the 
whoopin '-cough  than  it. 

Oh,  yas;   the  party  was  fine,  an',  as  I 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  7 

said,  they  was  a  lump  in  my  throat  from 
the  arrival  of  the  first  visitor,  although  it 
was  Moreland  Howe,  an'  you  know  I  never 
hankered  after  Moreland.  I  reckon  the 
reason  my  throat  lumped  up  so  at  him 
comin'  was  the  thought  thet  even  More- 
land  had  come  to  wish  me  joy.  You  see, 
he  give  my  emotions  a  back  lick  —  an'  it  's 
thess  like  'im. 

He  brought  me  that  ridic'lous  thing 
hangin'  from  the  swingin'  lamp  over  my 
readin '-table  in  the  hall  there.  What  you 
say?  "  What  is  it?  "  God  knows,  doctor, 
an'  he  ain't  told  me.  I  suspicion  it  's  thess 
a  sort  o'  eye-bet  cher, —  to  be  looked  at, — 
although  I  'd  ruther  look  at  almost  any- 
thing I  know.  It  's  a  thing  thet,  ef  a  per- 
son was  anyways  nervous,  would  either 
help  him  or  hender  him.  He  might  find 
ease  in  tryin*  to  count  the  red  an'  purple 
worsted  tassels,  or  the  flies  thet  light  on 
'em;  but  ef  he  did,  seem  to  me  he  would 
come  to  realize  thet  there  was  holes  in  the 
perforated  paper  thet  could  n't  be  counted, 
an'  —  well,  I  don't  like  to  discuss  it.  It  's 
the  kind  o '  thing  she,  or  7  never  liked  —  not 
thet  I  've  ever  seen  its  exact  match. 

The  only  use  she  ever  had  for  perforated 


8  SONNY  S   FATHER 

paper  was  to  make  crosses  for  pulpit  book- 
marks—  an'  I  Ve  made  'em  myself  whilst 
she  'd  be  darnin',  thess  startin'  with  one 
row  o'  between-holes  an'  cuttin'  each  one 
bigger  until  the  desired  size  was  reached, 
an'  then  pastin'  'em  one  on  top  o'  the 
other,  accordin'  to  size,  so  's  the  middle 
would  rise  up  like  sculpture.  Then  they  're 
fastened  on  to  the  ends  of  ribbins  to  hang 
out  in  view  o'  the  congregation.  Now, 
there  's  a  useful  thing  —  an'  suitable. 

You  know,  Moreland  was  engaged  to  be 
married  once-t,  an'  I  suspicion  thet  this 
dangle  is  one  of  his  engagement  presents 
thet  he  's  had  laid  away.  I  Ve  got  a  con- 
speracy  in  my  mind  thet  '11  rid  me  of  it  - 
in  time.  I  'm  go  in'  to  tech  it  over  keer- 
fully  with  what  attraction  I  can  scrape  off 
o'  fly-paper,  quick  as  spring  opens,  an' 
when  Moreland  sees  how  they  've  ruined 
it,  why,  I  '11  drop  it  in  the  stove  —  with 
regrets. 

He  's  dropped  in  twice-t  a 'ready  sence 
it  's  hung  there,  thess  to  enjoy  it,  although 
he  ain't  crossed  this  threshold  before  but 
once-t  in  three  year. 

I  tell  you,  doctor,  they  's  nothin'  thet 
stimulates  friendship  like  givin'.  Ee- 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  9 

ceivin'  is  cheap  compared  to  it,  ez  the  Bible 
declares. 

Yes,  but  we  were  mighty  sorry  you 
couldn't  come  to  the  party,  doctor;  an' 
ef  it  had  been  anything  but  another  birth- 
day occasion  thet  kep'  you  away,  we  'd  'a' 
made  a  row  about  it.  Of  course  the  babies, 
bless  their  hearts !  they  must  have  all  the 
attention  thet  they  can't  demand. 

I  tell  you,  things  are  a  heap  more  equal- 
ized in  this  world  than  short-sighted  mor- 
tals can  discern. 

But  you  ain't  seen  the  bulk  o'  the  pres- 
ents yet,  doctor.  Wait  a  minute  tel  I  have 
time  to  put  on  my  hypocritical  smile  an' 
I  '11  take  you  in.  We  '11  be  ap'  to  meet 
Mary  Elizabeth,  an'  I  owe  it  to  her  par- 
ticularly to  be  as  deceitfully  cheerful  as 
I  can  over  it ;  in  fact,  I  owe  it  to  all  them 
thet  took  part  in  it. 

I  wouldn't  mind  it  so  much  ef  I  could 
shet  my  room  door  an'  get  into  bed  an'  see 
the  interior  landscape  thet  I  'm  used  to, 
but  — 

'Sh-h-h!  I  hear  her  slippers.  She  's 
heared  you  an'  she  's  comin'  out. 

Here  's  doctor,  daughter.  An'  I  'm  thess 
takin'  'im  in  to  view  my  purties. 


10  SONNY  S   FATHER 

So  now,  I  s'pose  my  popularity  is  in  a 
manner  proved,  as  you  say,  an'  it  's  all 
mighty  fine  an'  gratifyin'.  But  after  I  Ve 
lived  with  my  constituency  for  a  while,  so 
to  speak,  I  'm  goin'  to  get  you  to  separate 
'em,  Mary  Elizabeth,  an'  let  the  whole 
house  feel  it.  No,  don't  say  a  word!  It's 
got  to  be  done.  Do  you  think  I  'm  that 
selfish  thet  I  'd  appropriate  all  the  com- 
bined popularity  of  daughter  an'  son  an' 
gran 'child 'en! 

The  truth  is,  Doc,  this  has  got  to  be  a 
turrible  popular  house  sence  Sonny  has 
been  elected  school  director  an'  little 
Marthy  is  old  enough  to  have  a  choice  o' 
hair-ribbins. 

An'  Mary  Elizabeth  she  always  was  pop- 
ular. An'  I  see  she  's  lookin'  at  her  watch : 
we  're  keepin'  'er  too  long.  I  s'pose  a 
watch  gets  looked  in  the  face  the  first  week 
of  its  ownership  often  enough  to  lose  coun- 
tenance forever  except  it  knew  it  would 
have  plenty  of  retirement,  later  on.  Most 
ladies'  watches  lead  lives  of  leisure. 

Yas,  I  give  it  to  her.  I  think  every  lady 
should  have  a  good  gold  watch  an'  chain, 
ef  for  nothin'  else  on  account  o'  the  chil- 
dren rememberin'  "  ma  with  her  watch  an' 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  11 

chain."  An'  the  various  daguerreotypes 
looks  well  with  'em.  It  's  a  part  o '  gentil- 
ity, a  lady's  watch  is,  whether  it  's  kep' 
wound  up  or  not. 

An'  in  case  o'  breakin'  up  a  home,  a 
watch  looks  well  on  the  inventory.  Little 
Marthy  —  her  grandma 's  namesake  —  of 
course  she  's  got  hers,  an'  it  ain't  no  mean 
timepiece,  neither.  It  's  got  a  live  purple 
amethyst  on  one  side,  an'  the  chain  goes 
around  twice-t  —  an '  ef  the  day  comes 
when  she  wants  to  take  my  old  picture  out 
o'  the  case  an'  put  in  a  younger  man's,  I  '11 
be  that  much  better  pleased  to  know  thet 
joy  stays  with  us,  along  with  time. 

I  wonder  ef  that  ain't  a  purty  fair 
joke,  doctor,  for  a  seventy-fiver  —  settin' 
amongst  his  troubles,  too. 

I  'm  glad  she  slipped  away.  She  's  sech 
a  modest  little  thing  —  went  thess  as  soon 
as  I  referred  to  her  popularity.  I  would  n't 
'a'  wanted  her  to  stay  an'  look  over  my 
presents  with  you.  It  'd  'a'  made  me 
tongue-tied.  Come  along,  Doc.  That  's 
right.  You  lif '  that  an'  I  '11  pull  this  back 
whilst  I  shet  the  door  with  my  foot. 

I  tried  to  open  that  door  yesterday  from 
my  bed  the  way  I  Ve  always  done,  but  by 


12  SONNY'S  FATHER 

the  time  I  'd  got  the  things  out  o '  the  way 
they  was  n  't  anything  left  to  use  but  my 
teeth,  an'  ruther  than  resk  my  plate  on 
that  glass  door-knob  I  got  up  an'  h'isted  a 
few  things  on  to  the  bed  —  an'  the  re- 
bellion thet  came  into  my  heart  I  'd  like  to 
forget.  I  've  doubted  the  doctrine  of  total 
depravity  all  my  life,  as  you  know,  but 
maybe  it  's  so,  after  all  —  in  my  case,  at 
least.  I  reckon,  like  as  not,  all  doctrines  is 
true,  more  or  less,  in  some  lights,  or  else 
so  many  people  would  n't  see  their  ways  to 
believin'  'em. 

The  way  I  Ve  sinned  over  these  presents 
has  filled  me  with  regretful  remorse. 

Lookout!  Don't  step!  Wait  a  minute! 
Some  o'  the  children  has  wound  it  up.  I 
hear  it  whir.  Here  it  comes  from  under 
the  bed.  We  must  Ve  shook  the  floor. 
What  do  you  think  o'  that,  now?  Sir! 
Why,  it 's  said  to  be  a  seed-counter.  Jim 
Bowers  brought  it.  He  says  thet  when  it 
travels  that-a-way  it  's  prowlin'  for  food 
an*  it  craves  peas  an'  beans  to  count. 

What  's  that  you  say?  "  Did  I  give  it 
any!  '  No,  I  didn't.  Not  a  one.  I  was 
too  nettled  to  give  Jim  that  satisfaction. 
I  know  it  's  some  dod-blasted  patent  thet 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  13 

he  's  been  took  in  with,  an'  he  thought  thet 
bein '  as  I  was  in  my  second  childhood,  I  'd 
be  tickled  over  it  —  an'  I  got  contrary. 

I  really  wouldn't  care  so  much  ef  the 
thing  wasn't  so  all-fired  big.  It  takes  up 
as  much  floor-room  as  a  chair,  an'  I  'm 
compelled  to  keep  it  in  sight  —  for  a  while. 

Who  in  thunder  wants  seeds  counted, 
even  ef  the  fool  thing  could  do  it?  It 's 
more  like  a  toe-snatcher,  to  me;  an'  I  in- 
tend to  have  it  chained  to  the  table-leg,  a 
safe-t  distance  from  my  bed.  I  never  did 
like  the  idee  of  havin'  my  bare  feet  nabbed 
in  the  dark. 

Our  littlest  he  's  mighty  mischievious, 
an'  no  doubt  he  beared  me  an'  you  start  to 
come  in,  an'  he  's  sneaked  in  an'  wound 
up  -  Look  out,  there !  I  say  he  's  been  in 
here  an'  wound  up  things.  That  ain't 
nothin'  but  a  mechanical  rooster,  but  you 
don't  want  to  step  on  it.  See  him  stretch 
his  neck  an'  —  did  you  ever  hear  anything 
so  ridic'lous!  I  s'pose  I  must  ac'  mighty 
childish  for  people  to  fetch  me  sech  pres- 
ents. An'  yet,  I  ruther  like  that  rooster. 
It  tickles  me  to  see  the  way  he  exerts  his- 
self. 

Hold  on,  Doc !    That  's  on  the  bureau  an' 


14  SONNY  S  FATHER 

it  can't  do  you  no  harm.  Yas,  lie  's  wound 
'em  all  up,  the  little  scamp,  an'  like  as  not 
he  's  watchin'  us  from  somewheres. 

Thess  to  think,  Doc,  thet  we  was  boys 
once-t.  It  's  the  fullest-to-the-brim  of  hap- 
piness of  all  the  cups  of  life,  boyhood  is,  I 
do  believe. 

Don't  start!  Thet  's  thess  a  donkey 
savin  Vbank,  an*  it  '11  "  yee-haw!  "  that- 
a-way  now  tel  a  nickel  's  dropped  in  its 
slotted  ear.  He  's  the  family  favoryte  of 
all  the  presents,  an'  he  's  heavy  with 
money  a 'ready.  What  's  that  you  say? 
' '  He  '11  bray  tel  he  runs  down  ' '  ?  But  he 
don't  never  run  down  —  not  within  the 
limit  of  human  endurance. 

They  say  they  're  the  best  money-savers 
on  the  market.  They  're  so  ridic'lous, 
'most  anybody  '11  spend  a  little  change  to 
see  'em  perform.  The  feller  showed  his 
genius  in  makin'  the  deposit  go  to  hushin' 
'em.  He  knew  thet  once-t  he  got  started, 
a  man  would  give  his  last  cent  to  silence 
him.  Did  you  ever  hear  so  much  sound 
out  of  sech  a  little  —  An'  his  last  bray  is 
as  loud  as  his  first. 

Here,  drop  this  in  his  ear,  for  gracious' 
sakes,  so  we  can  talk. 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  15 

Oh,  them?  They  're  picture-frames  con- 
structed out  o'  chicken-bones. 

I  s'pose  maybe  they  's  jestice  in  this 
museum,  but  they  don't  seem  to  be  mercy. 

It  seems  thet  a  lady  down  in  Ozan  has 
been  givin'  lessons  in  makin'  'em.  Yas, 
chicken-bones  steeped  in  diamond  dyes; 
an'  they  say  they  's  seventeen  kinds  o' 
flowers  an'  four  fruits  represented.  I  ain't 
studied  'em  out  yet,  but  I  can  see  they  've 
used  drumsticks  for  buds,  mostly.  An'  the 
neck-j  'ints,  unj  'inted,  they  're  wide-open 
perrarer-flowers. 

The  heads  is  seed-pods,  an'  so  is  the 
popes '-noses;  an'  I  have  an  idee  thet  the 
chrysanthe 'urns  an'  asters  is  constructed 
mainly  of  ribs.  Of  course  it  'd  take  a  num- 
ber, but  on  a  farm  — 

Why,  yas ;  I  s'pose  it  is  purty  —  uncom- 
mon purty  —  considering  but  in  things  of 
beauty  I  don't  like  to  have  to  consider,  an' 
the  thing  don't  appetize  me  worth  a 
cent. 

Them  gum-ball  frames,  now,  an'  the 
sycamores  an'  pine-cones  do  very  well. 
But  when  it  comes  to  framin'  my  relations, 
I  sort  o '  like  to  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket 
an'  do  'em  store- jestice.  An'  these  nature- 


16  SONNY  S   FATHER 

frames  they  ketch  dust  an'  harbor  spi- 
ders. 

Between  you  an'  me,  I  don't  intend  to 
give  them  graveyard  chicken-frames  house 
room  more  'n  thess  so  long,  an'  the  only 
real  use  I  can  think  to  put  'em  to  is  a 
raffle;  so  I  '11  donate  'em  to  the  next 
county  fair  to  be  raffled  for  expenses.  You 
see,  they  'd  be  suitable  for  the  flower,  fruit, 
an'  fowl  departments,  an'  they  pleg  me, 
thess  knowin'  they  're  here. 

Mary  Elizabeth  she  ain't  give  no  opinion 
of  'em  yet,  an'  she  may  consider  'em  suit- 
able to  frame  a  couple  o'  stuffed  birds 
she  's  got;  an*  ef  she  does,  why,  she  's 
welcome.  She  'd  likely  gild  hers  to  match 
the  pine-cone  frame  round  her  mother. 
She  's  got  it  trimmed  with  a  piece  of  her 
ma's  favoryte  silk  dress,  fastened  in  one 
corner  by  a  little  pin  she  used  to  wear. 
She  considers  suitableness  in  everything, 
Mary  Elizabeth  does. 

These  slippers  I  Ve  got  on  was  her  pres- 
ent. She  worked  the  initials,  an'  they  're 
lined  with  a  scrap  o*  one  o'  wife's  old  wool 
dresses,  an'  I  like  to  know  it. 

That  new  readin'-lamp?  Why,  Sonny  he 
give  me  that.  The  old  one  was  good 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  17 

enough  a-plenty,  but  it  seems  thet  these 
new  ones  have  special  organdy  burners  — 
or  no,  I  reckon  it  was  the  old  one  thet  had 
the  organdy  burner,  an'  this  one  is  to  wear 
a  mantle,  he  says.  Either  one  reminds  me 
of  her,  —  either  the  organdy  or  the  man- 
tle,—  an',  of  course,  I  need  the  best  light 
now  for  my  night  chapter  o'  the  gospel. 
The  little  feller  —  why,  he  made  the  stand 
it  sets  on,  an'  the  mats  was  crocheted  by 
the  girls. 

Oh,  I  got  lots  of  nice  suitable  things,  an' 
I  appreciate  everything,  nice  or  not,  ex- 
ceptin'  that  seed-counter,  an'  I  never  will 
be  reconciled  to  bein'  made  cheap  of.  I 
hate  a  fool,  even  when  it  's  inanimate. 

Yas,  that  's  a  map  o'  the  world.  Henry 
Burgess  brought  that.  Yas,  it  does  seem 
a  nice  thing,  an*  I  said  so,  too,  an'  I  'm 
glad  I  praised  it  bef o '  I  saw  the  date  on  it. 
After  that,  I  'd  'a'  been  compelled  either 
to  pervaricate  or  to  fail  in  politeness,  an' 
it  's  always  easier  to  fall  on  a  piller  than 
into  a  brier-patch.  Good  hearted  people 
has  to  look  sharp  not  to  become  cheerful 
liars. 

I  Ve  looked  for  places  I  know  on  the 
map,  but  it  's  either  non-committal  or  I  'm 


is  SONNY'S  FATHER 

not  observant  enough.  They  don 't  seem  to 
be  no  Philippine  Islands  on  it  whatsoever, 
but  like  as  not  they  wasn't  thought  much 
of  then  an'  they  're  secreted  somewhere. 

I  always  did  like  the  look  of  a  wall- 
map, —  when  I  go  into  an  office  or  court- 
house, —  but  I  doubt  whether  I  '11  ever 
fully  relish  this  on  my  own  wall.  A  clock 
thet  won't  keep  truthful  time  always 
plegs  me,  an'  this  threatens  me  the  same 
way. 

Oh,  no ;  that  ain't  to  say  a  toy,  exac'ly  — 
that  nigger  doll  on  the  mantel.  It  's  a  pin- 
cushion; an'  the  heathen  Chinee,  why, 
he  's  a  holder  of  shavin '-paper;  an'  the 
stuffed  cat  it  's  a  foot-rest.  I  notice  it 's 
mouse-e't  at  the  corners,  so  the  conwo'ziers 
ain't  deceived. 

I  see  somethin'  has  stole  the  hickory-nut 
head  o'  the  toothpick  lady  a 'ready,  an'  I 
suspect  it  's  the  flyin '-squirrel  I  caught 
sniffin'  at  her  yesterday. 

An'  that  pile  o'  ribbins?  Oh,  they  Ve 
come  off  o'  all  the  things.  That  was  the 
first  thing  I  done,  rippin'  them  off. 
They  'd  ketch  in  my  hands  so  an'  gimme 
goose-skin  the  len'th  o'  my  spine. 

I  Ve  passed  them  over  to  Mary  Eliza- 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  19 

beth,  an'  she  '11  likely  work  'em  into  crazy- 
patches  or  hair-ribbins  for  the  girls. 

That?  Excuse  me  whistlin'.  That 's 
ivhisky,  doctor.  An'  who  do  you  reckon 
sent  it?  Who  but  Miss  Sophia  Falena 
Simpkins,  the  twin  —  an'  they  both  teeto- 
talers! Shows  their  confidence  in  me. 

"  How  old  is  it?  "  Well,  she  allowed  it 
was  as  old  as  they  was,  an'  of  co'se  that 
stopped  my  inquiry,  but  it  's  old  enough 
to  be  treated  with  respect  an'  not  abuse. 
Yas,  that  four-in-hand  necktie  was  tied  on 
its  neck  —  from  the  other  twin.  Oh,  it  's 
the  reverend  stuff,  an'  that  thimble-sized, 
hat-shaped  glass  over  the  cork  seems  to 
stand  for  their  maidenly  consciences,  an' 
I  won't  never  violate  the  hint. 

That  shoe-an  '-slipper  holder  with  all  the 
nests  in  it  was  sent  in  by  our  chapter  of 
the  King's  Daughters,  each  daughter  con- 
tributin'  one  nest,  as  I  understand  it;  an' 
it 's  ornamental  on  the  wall,  although  my 
one  contribution  looks  middlin'  lonesome 
in  it.  Of  co  'se  I  always  have  on  either  my 
slippers  or  my  boots,  an7  when  I  get  into 
bed  it  's  unhandy  to  cross  the  room  thess 
to  put  either  one  up  in  style. 

The  first  night  it  hung  there  the  children 


20  SONNY'S  FATHER 

all  come  an'  put  in  their  shoes  for  the 
night,  but  that  was  awkward.  They  had 
to  go  out  bare-feeted. 

Yas,  the  motter  is  suitable  enough. 
"  Best  for  tired  soles  "  is  about  as  inof- 
fensive as  a  motter  could  well  be.  An'  so 
is  this,  on  one  o'  the  umbrella-holders, 
"  Wait  tel  the  clouds  roll  by,"  although  it 
seems  a  sort  o'  misfit  for  an  umbrella. 
"  When  it  rains  it  pours  "  would  be  more 
to  my  mind.  Yas,  I  Ve  got  three.  ' '  Little 
drops  of  water,"  this  one  seems  to  have 
on  it ;  an'  this  one  says  —  I  never  can  read 
them  German-tex'  letters.  What  's  that 
you  say?  "  Expansion  for  protection 
only  '"?  It 's  well  to  be  highly  educated 
like  you,  doctor.  I  would  n  't  'a '  made  that 
out  in  a  week.  It  sounds  sort  o'  deep- 
seated  to  me,  like  ez  ef  more  was  meant 
than  you  see  at. first?  I  wonder  ef  it  could 
refer  to  politics,  some  way.  "  Expansion 
for  protection  only."  It  cert'n'y  sounds 
political.  Why,  of  co'se,  Jedge  Whitte- 
more,  he  sent  me  that  —  an'  he  's  so  op- 
posed to  annexin'  the  Philippines. 

Yas,  they  did  fetch  a  ridic'lous  lot  o' 
pen-wipers,  for  a  person  o'  my  sedate  hab- 
its. I  never  did  fly  to  the  pen  much.  You 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  21 

see,  when  a  present  is  more  or  less  obliga- 
tory, why,  a  pen-wiper  is  an  easy  way  out. 
Almost  any  cloth  shape  repeated  an'  tacked 
in  the  middle  with  some  sort  o '  centerpiece, 
like  an  odd  button,  rises  into  prominence 
with  the  look  of  a  present. 

Of  co'se  I  have  wrote  letters,  from  time 
to  time,  in  days  past.  I  was  countin',  only 
last  Sunday,  the  letters  I  Ve  wrote  in  my 
life,  an',  includin'  my  proposal-letter, 
which  I  wrote  an'  handed  to  her  personal, 
on  account  o '  the  paralysis  of  my  tongue  — 
I  say,  countin'  that,  I  Ve  wrote  seven  let- 
ters all  told ;  an'  I  regret  to  say,  one  of  the 
seven  was  writ  in  anger,  an'  two  in  apology 
for  it,  so  thet  they  's  only  four  real  credit- 
able letters  to  my  credit,  an'  one  o'  the 
four  wasn't  to  say  extry  friendly,  al- 
though it  sounded  well. 

That  was  the  one  I  wrote  to  Sally  Ann, 
time  her  first  husband,  Teddy  Brooks,  died. 
Poor^Teddy  could  easy  'a'  been  kep'  livin' 
along  a  few  years  more,  ef  not  permanent, 
ef  he  'd  been  looked  after  an '  excused  from 
so  much  motherly  cradle  service.  Of  co  'se 
I  knew  Sally  Ann,  an'  thet  she  was  nach- 
elly  a  public  performer,  an'  would  be 
readin'  'er  letters  of  consolation  out  loud 


22  SONNY'S  FATHER 

to  whoever  dropped  in,  an'  I  composed  it 
accordin'.  An'  so  she  did,  for  she  wrote 
me  thet  my  note  of  condolence  was  the 
most  eloquent  of  all  she  got  — ' '  so  every- 
body said."  She  beats  the  Dutch,  Sally 
Ann  does. 

I  don't  suppose  she  ever  took  a  mo- 
ment's comfort  in  seclusion  in  her  life,  no 
more  'n  a  weather-vane.  Poor  Sally! 

But  talkin'  about  this  excessive  circula- 
tion of  presents  thet  's  come  into  fashion 
these  last  years,  I  don't  approve  of  it,  doc- 
tor ;  an '  you  know  it  ain  't  thet  I  'm  stingy 
about  doin'  my  part.  I  '11  give  a  present, 
ef  need  be,  an'  I  '11  even  command  the 
grace  to  take  one,  —  I  seem  to  Ve  proved 
that,  —  but  it  's  the  principle  of  the  thing 
thet  troubles  my  mind. 

Some  of  our  best-raised  girls  has  got 
flighty  that-a-way  after  goin'  to  boa 'din '- 
school,  where  they  learn  a  heap  more  'n 
Latin  verbs  an*  finishin'  behavior.  Not 
thet  I  don't  appreciate  what  they  do  ac- 
quire. It  seems  to  lift  'em  into  a  higher 
region  of  ladyhood,  I  know,  an'  it  's  a  thing 
you  can't  locate. 

Wife  had  a  year  at  Hilltop  Academy,  an' 
I  always  thought  she  showed  it,  even  in 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  23 

the  way  she  'd  gether  eggs  in  'er  apron,  or 
keep  still  tel  another  person  quit  speakin'. 
But  of  co'se  they  's  boa 'din '-schools  an* 
boa 'din '-schools,  an'  them  thet  fosters  idle 
hands  I  don't  approve  of;  an'  the  fact 
thet  a  parent  may  be  able  to  pay  for  it 
ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with  the  divine  re- 
sponsibility as  I  see  it.  The  idee  of  an 
earthly  parent  bein'  willin'  to  put  up  big 
money  to  have  his  own  flesh  an'  blood  in- 
capacited  for  misfortune! 

Oh,  yas;  they  give  me  considerable 
books.  They  've  complimented  my  educa- 
tion to  that  extent.  This  "  pronouncin'- 
Testament,"  for  instance,  I  seized  with 
delight,  hopin'  to  get  the  real  patriarchal 
pronunciations.  I  wanted  to  see  if  sech 
jokes  as  "  Milk-easy-Dick  "  an'  "  Knee- 
high-miah  "  and  "  Build-dad- the-shoe- 
height  "  was  legitimate  frivolity,  but  I 
ain't  had  no  luck  so  far.  I  sort  o'  wonder 
what  kind  of  a  man  would  aspire  to  write 
a  Bible-pronouncer. 

You  know  sence  Sonny 's  taken  to  writin* 
books,  an'  we  Ve  had  an  author's  readin' 
here,  I  always  seem  to  discern  a  person 
behind  every  volume. 

Yas;    they  're  usin'  several  of  Sonny's 


24  SONNY'S  FATHER 

nature-books  in  the  schools,  now,  an'  he 
has  mo'  orders  'n  he  can  fill,  but  he  won't 
never  hurry.  You  know  he  never  did. 
He  '11  study  over  a  thing  tel  he  's  satisfied 
with  it,  before  any  temptation  would  in- 
duce him  to  write  about  it.  That  's  why 
he  gets  sech  high  prices  for  what  he  does. 
It  don't  have  to  be  contradicted,  an'  no 
pleasure  of  the  imagination  will  make  him 
lead  a  dumb  beast  into  behavior  thet  's  too 
diplomatic  or  complicated. 

He  's  done  some  jocular  experimentin ', 
—  set  eggs  under  inappropriate  beasts  an' 
sech  as  that,  —  but  he  ain  't  had  no  luck. 
All  our  beasts-of-a-hair  seem  to  flock  to- 
gether same  as  birds  of  a  feather.  He 
'lows  thet  he  's  often  seen  expressions  on 
our  dog's  face  thet  looked  like  ez  ef  he 
might  be  capable  of  intrigue  or  religious 
exaltation,  but  Sonny  ain't  felt  justifiable 
in  ascribin'  motives  thess  on  his  facial  in- 
dications —  not  even  when  it  's  backed  by 
the  expression  of  his  tail. 

You  ain't  goin'?  Well,  I  'm  a  friend 
to  all  the  sick,  so  I  won't  keep  you.  Yo' 
visit  has  done  me  good,  doctor.  I  always 
did  love  to  hear  you  talk.  "We  agree  an' 
disagree  thess  enough  for  sugar  an'  spice. 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  25 

Oh,  yas;  it  's  been  a  merry  Christmas; 
no  doubt  about  that.  An'  the  fun  ain't 
fully  over,  either.  I  '11  amuse  myself  with 
the  presents  thet  's  been  adjudged  suitable 
to  my  mind,  when  time  hangs  too  heavy. 
I  thought  last  night  thet  some  time  I  'd 
empty  that  bottle  o'  iron  pills  I  never 
took  —  I  'd  empty  'em  into  the  seed-coun- 
ter when  it  was  on  some  of  its  migrations ; 
an'  ef  it  knew  the  difference  an'  spurned 
to  count  'em,  I  'd  try  to  have  some  respect 
for  its  intellect. 

Good-lay,  Doc,  an'  a  merry  Christmas! 

Surely,  say  it  again:  "  Merry  Christ- 
mas! "  That  lasts  here  tel  we  can  say 
"  Happy  New  Year!  "  They  say  our 
Christmas  laughter  was  heared  clair  acrost 
Chinquepin  Creek,  an'  ol'  Mis'  Gibbs, 
settin'  there  paralyzed  in  her  chair,  she 
laughed  with  us  whilst  she  enjoyed  the 
basket-dinner  Mary  Elizabeth  sent  over  to 
her. 

Yas,  them  's  her  cardin '-combs.  She 
could  n't  come  to  the  surprise  party,  so  she 
sent  them  to  me.  Her  hands  refuse  to 
hold  'em  any  longer,  an'  she  allowed  no 
doubt  thet  I  might  while  away  my  last 
moments  that-a-way.  But  of  co'se  she 


26  SONNY  S   FATHER 

didn't  know  me.  I  may  be  old  an'  child- 
ish, but  even  ef  I  was  to  turn  baby  again, 
I  'd  be  a  boy-baby.  Yas,  I  know  I  could 
use  'em,  but  I  won't. 

It 's  true  I  made  Bible  book-marks,  but 
they  was  for  a  man  to  preach  by,  an'  a 
housewifey  woman  set  beside  me,  sewin' 
whilst  I  made  'em.  That  was  enough  to 
difference  me.  Why,  ef  I  was  to  get  so 
sedated  down  thet  I  could  set  up  here  an' 
do  feminyne  work,  I  'd  feel  belittled,  an' 
no  man  can  stand  that. 

Well,  good-by,  ef  you  must.  Here,  ol' 
friend,  gimme  yo'  hand  an'  lemme  hold  it 
still  thess  a  minute.  So  much  of  our 
earthly  hand-shakin'  is  thess  touch  an* 
go  —  an'  I  like  to  realize  a  friend's  hand 
once-t  in  a  while. 

An'  now  I  Ve  got  it,  I  want  to  keep  it 
whilst  I  say  somethin'.  Settin*  here  these 
long  hours  sence  this  blessed  Christ- 
mas day,  which,  after  all  my  jocular  ana- 
lyzing has  moved  me  to  tears,  I  Ve  had  a 
thought  —  a  thought  which  has  give  me 
comfort,  an'  I  'm  goin'  to  pass  it  on  to 
you. 

Settin'  amongst  my  misfit  presents,  yes- 
terday, mad  one  minute  an*  chokin'  with 


A   MISFIT   CHRISTMAS  27 

laughter  an'  throat-lumps  the  next,  I  sud- 
denly seemed  to  hear  a  line  o'  the  old 
hymn,  "  My  Christmas  will  last  all  the 
year,"  an'  then  I  was  thankful  thet  my 
'Piscopal  experience  had  furnished  me  a 
ready  answer  to  that:  "  Good  Lord,  de- 
liver us !  ' 

An'  then,  with  my  funny-bone  fairly 
trimblin'  an'  my  risible  eye  on  the  fly- 
catcher, the  sweetest  thought  come  to 
me — like  a  white  bird  out  of  a  wind-storm. 

Harassed  as  I  was  with  all  these  pres- 
ents, I  could  n't  seem  to  contemplate  a  con- 
tinuous Christmas  of  peace,  noways,  when 
suddenly  I  seemed  to  see  the  words 
befo'  me,  differently  spelled.  Instid  of 
"  e-n-t-s  "  I  saw  "  e-n-c-e,"  an'  right 
befo'  my  speritual  vision  I  saw,  same 
ez  sky-writin',  "  The  Christmas  Pres- 
ence "  —  thess  so. 

Maybe  it  won't  strike  you,  but  it  was  a 
great  thought  to  me,  doctor,  an'  "  Christ- 
mas all  the  year  "  had  a  new  sound  to  my 
ears. 

Think  of  that,  doctor  —  of  livin*  along  in 
the  azurine  blue,  beholdin'  the  face  of  the 
Little  One  of  the  manger  by  the  near  light 
of  the  Bethlehem  star! 


28  SONNY  S  FATHER 

Or  maybe  seem'  the  Beloved  leanin'  on 
a  piller  of  clouds,  illuminin'  our  listenin' 
faces  with  the  gleam  of  his  countenance 
whilst  he  'd  maybe  repeat  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount  from  the  book  of  his  eternal 
memory.  Think  of  what  an  author's 
readin'  that  would  be  —  an'  what  an  audi- 
ence! 

An'  it  's  this  Christmas  Presence  thet 
inspires  all  our  lovin'  thoughts  here  below, 
whether  we  discern  it  or  not. 

An'  what  we  '11  get  on  the  other  side  '11 
be  realization  —  a  clair  vision  with  all  the 
mists  of  doubt  dissolved. 

This  is  the  thought  thet  come  to  me  yes- 
terday, doctor,  out  o'  the  cyclone  of  play- 
ful good  will  thet  got  me  so  rattled.  An' 
it  's  come  to  stay. 

An*  with  it,  how  sweet  it  will  be  to  set 
an'  wait,  with  a  smile  to  welcome  the  en- 
durin'  Christmas  thet  11  last  "  all  the 
year  "an'  forever. 


II 

WEALTH  AND  RICHES 

T  does  me  good,  doctor,  to  have 
you  thess  drop  in  this  a- way, 
an'  nobody  sick.  Shows  you 
really  like  us. 
Yas,  I  think  the  addition  is  goin'  to  im- 
prove the  place  a  heap.  I  like  a  house  thet 
grows  to  its  needs.  Apt  to  be  a  snugger 
fit  than  them  thet  's  built  big  to  be  growed 
up  to.  Each  addition  stands  for  some 
event,  an'  the  whole  house  is  a  reg'lar 
history-book. 

No,  we  ain't  buildin'  no  new  parlor. 
'T  ain't  needed.  That  one  holds  the  six 
chairs  an'  the  rocker  an'  arm-chair  an'  the 
center-table,  an'  when  sociables  or  any- 
thing meets  out  here,  why,  they  can  slide 
open  the  doors  and  fetch  in  camp  chairs. 

Yas,  we're  puttin'  slidin'  doors  in; 
thess  for  convenience,  though,  not  for 
grandeur.  It  '11  open  up  the  house  con- 
sider'ble,  an'  often  make  one  fire  do  in 
place  o'  two. 

26 


30  SONNY'S  FATHER 

Yas,  Mary  Elizabeth  she  planned  it 
mainly.  She  did  mean  to  lower  the  mantel 
a  foot  or  two.  It  's  toler'ble  high.  But 
I  've  got  so  used  to  lookin'  up  to  the  row 
o '  daguerreotypes,  it  would  n  't  seem  quite 
proper  to  bring  'em  down  even  with  my 
eyes. 

The  new  room  over  the  dinin'-room,  with 
the  glass  bulged-out  winder,  why,  that  's 
for  Sonny's  study,  away  f 'om  the  noise  o' 
the  child 'en,  an'  it 's  to  be  het  with  a  good 
log  fire;  an'  the  long  room  they  're  puttin' 
on  behind,  why,  it  '11  open  up  into  the  very 
limbs  of  the  oaks,  nearly,  an'  that  's  to  be 
give  over  to  the  little  ones,  for  rainy  days 
an'  -  -whenever  they  want  to  stay  there. 

What  's  that  you  say?  Oh,  shoo,  doctor. 
Well,  I  reckon  they  do  say  Sonny  's  gittin' 
rich,  thess  because  he  's  buyin'  mo'  lani 
an'  addin'  a'  ell  to  his  house.  But  I  'd 
nachelly  hate  to  have  him  regarded  ez  rich. 
He  ain't  got  no  ambition  that  a-way.  He 
makes  a  good  income  offn  his  books,  an' 
keeps  strong  runnin'  the  farm.  That  sup- 
po'ts  the  family  comf 'table,  an'  I  suppose 
he  '11  be  a  wealthy  man  if  he  lives  —  an' 
I  hope  he  will. 

How  's  that,  doctor?     You  "  don't  see 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  31 

no  difference  "I  No  difference  'twixt 
wealth  an'  riches?  Well,  maybe  they 
ain't  —  in  the  dictionaries.  An'  maybe 
they  're  the  same  out  of  it,  for  all  I  know ; 
but  to  my  mind  they  seem  two  distinc' 
things. 

To  me  wealth  seems  to  stand  for  pros- 
perity, —  like  it  might  be  distributed,  - 
but  riches  they  always  seem  to  be  confined 
to  a  few.  When  I  think  o'  wealth,  I  seem 
to  see  pastures  an'  flocks  an'  herds,  an' 
maybe  to  hear  the  buzz  of  machinery  — 
gin-houses  an'  factories;  but  riches,  well, 
riches  might  be  money  stowed  away. 

A  home  of  wealth  ought  to  be  broad  an' 
piazzered  round,  with  big  rooms,  an'  wide 
front  doors  with  easy-mo vin'  hinges  to 
open  to  the  stranger. 

But  a  rich  man's  residence  —  why,  I 
don't  no  more  'n  say  the  word  befo'  I  seem 
to  see  cupalos  an'  towers  rise  up,  an' 
proud  cornishes,  an'  stiff  doors  with  pat- 
ent locks  an'  bolts. 

To  bring  it  down  to  few  words,  wealth 
always  seemed  to  me  to  be  abundance  in 
use,  an'  riches  superabundance  stacked  on 
shelves. 

Wealth  lies  in  comforts,  an'  riches  is  ap' 


32  SONNY'S  FATHER 

to  be  cold  money.  Yas,  I  'd  like  my  folks 
to  be  wealthy,  ef  they  could  without 
wrongin'  anybody,  but  I  'd  be  humiliated 
ef  they  was  ever  to  allow  theirselves  to  git 
rich. 

I  can't  say  thet  I  think  the  bare  accu- 
mulatin'  of  too  much  money  is  a  Christian 
thing,  anyhow.  I  'm  inclined  to  agree  with 
Scripture  on  that  p  'int. 

Of  co'se  we  all  know  thet  no  camel 
couldn't  git  th'ough  the  eye  of  no  needle 
thet  wasn't  made  a-purpose,  even  ef  he 
humped  hisself  worse  'n  he  's  humped 
a 'ready;  an'  they  's  mighty  few  big  for- 
tunes in  money  thet  ain't  in  a  manner 
gethered  up  into  humps  on  their  owners' 
backs,  so  thet  they  're  too  broad  for  the 
gate  o'  the  kingdom. 

Yas,  when  a  man's  money  starts  to  run 
to  cupalos,  why,  I  begin  to  be  anxious 
about  him.  'T  ain't  thet  I  've  got  any  ob- 
jection to  the  cupalo.  It  's  the  manners 
an'  behavior  thet  goes  with  'em.  It  don't 
take  'em  long  to  git  cupalo-minded. 

I  Ve  seen  some  mighty  good  people  try 
it,  an'  the  tower  would  n't  be  topped  hardly 
befo'  they  'd  begin  to  be  overbearin'  an' 
want  to  be  classed  ez  "  leadin'  citizens  " 


WEALTH   AND  KICHES  33 

an'  all  sech  ez  that.  You  know  that  sort  o' 
racket  ain't  got  no  Christian  sperit  to  it  — 
not  a  bit. 

An'  yet,  even  whilst  I  'm  a-sayin'  this, 
doctor,  my  conscience  pricks  me,  for  I  re- 
alize thet  while  I  ain't  no  cupalo-man 
myself,  I  Ve  taken  pride  in  the  two  or  three 
thet  's  here  an'  there  in  the  county.  Al- 
ways want  to  make  shore  any  stranger  '11 
see  'em.  Yas,  that  could,  ez  you  say,  be 
called  State  pride,  maybe,  but  I  know 
't  ain't  worthy.  I  suppose  a  man  has  to 
die  bef o '  he  gits  shet  of  all  folly. 

No;  my  idee  of  a  "  leadin'  citizen  "  is 
the  man  thet  leads  off  in  wise  counsel  an' 
public  benefits ;  a  man  thet  '11  care  more  to 
have  the  children  o'  the  poor  learned  to 
read  the  Holy  Scriptures  in  plain  Ameri- 
can than  to  have  his  own  son  teached  to 
talk  Philippine  or  Latin ;  a  man  thet  '11  put 
his  cupalo-money  into  sidewalks  in  the 
back  streets  his  folks  don't  need  to  travel 
in,  an'  thet  '11  lead  off  in  singin'  in  church 
'long  with  the  congregation,  instid  o'  set- 
tin'  up  in  his  pew,  dumb  ez  a  clam,  with 
his  ears  cocked  for  choir  criticism. 

Sir?  Oh,  don't  beg  the  question,  doctor. 
Of  co'se,  ef  he  ain't  got  no  voice,  he  can't 


34  SONNY S   FATHER 

sing,  but  he  can  hold  one  side  of  his  wife's 
hymn-book  an'  keep  the  place.  A  voiceless 
man  is  f o  'ced  to  sing  by  proxy  to  that  ex- 
tent, an'  I  think  he  'd  be  registered  ez  a 
singer  in  heaven,  ef  he  done  it  worshipful. 

No;  to  my  mind,  a  great  part  o'  the 
so-called  "  leadin'  citizens  "  I  've  known 
most  about  haven't  been  leaders  at  all. 
They  Ve  been  overriders,  an'  when  a  good- 
natured  man  overrides  a  community  with  a 
passably  generous  hand,  why,  it  's  hard  to 
turn  him  down.  Takes  courage. 

Oh,  I  ain't  mentionin'  no  names,  but  you 
an'  me  've  been  livin'  in  the  State  of  Ark- 
ansaw  sence  long  befo'  the  newcomers 
started  to  take  on  new  pronunciations  an' 
gingerbread  work,  an'  I  reckon  we  know 
who  've  been  some  of  its  leadin'  citizens. 

We  'd  be  thinkin'  of  the  same  man  in  a 
minute  ef  I  was  to  ask  ef  you  remembered 
the  old  man  down  at  Clay  Bottom  thet 
planted  out  shade-trees  along  the  lanes 
where  the  niggers  had  to  go  to  work  on  the 
highroads  —  done  it  befo '  he  f oun '  time  to 
set  out  any  in  his  own  yard.  'Lowed  his 
home  folks  had  time  to  set  down  an'  fan, 
an'  the  roads  was  b'ilin'  hot  on  man  an' 
beast. 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  35 

Of  co'se  I  knowed  you  'd  know.  Yas, 
that  was  him.  He  did  git  to  be  a  man  o' 
wealth  bef  o '  he  died,  but  he  never  piled  up 
idle  money  —  not  a  cent  of  it. 

What!  Oh,  now,  doc,  you  can't  tell  me 
you  don't  see  where  the  difference  is.  But 
I  suppose  a  man  can't  understand  physic 
an'  —  why,  of  co'se,  I  know  he  was  called 
rich,  an'  I  suppose  maybe  in  a  sense  he 
was.  He  left  a  big  estate,  alive  an'  working 
every  inch  of  it.  He  did  n  't  leave  no  sod- 
den bank-accounts  for  his  sons  to  draw  on, 
though. 

They  're  the  damnation  o'  half  o'  the 
sons  of  rich  men,  them  interest-bearin* 
bank-accounts  is,  to  be  drawed  on  in  idle- 
ness. Sir?  Oh,  I  didn't  say  it  was  idle 
money.  The  banks  is  busy  enough.  It  's 
the  triflin'  inheritors  thet  frets  me.  Sturdy 
good  man,  leadin'  citizen  ef  they  ever  was 
one,  though  I  doubt  ef  he  ever  owned  a  coat 
trimmed  off  to  a  waistcoat  in  front. 

Yas,  I  was  sorry,  too,  about  Sally  Ann 
puttin'  up  that  cupalo  to  her  house,  but 
I  wasn't  surprised.  Exceptin*  for  that 
third  little  boy  o'  hers,  little  Teddy,  havin' 
hip  trouble,  I  'm  afeard  she  'd  have  to  be 
otherwise  disciplined,  Sally  Ann  would. 


36  SONNY  S  FATHER 

Of  co'se  a  woman  with  mo'  discretion 
would  'a*  waited  a  little  while  after  her 
second  husband's  death  befo'  she  started 
the  cupalo;  but  the  remark  thet  's  goin' 
round  thet  she  's  "  sendin'  up  an  an- 
nouncement thet  she  's  open  to  proposals 
for  number  three,"  why,  it  's  thess  simply 
malicious,  that  's  what  it  is. 

No ;  Sally  Ann  thess  started  that  tower 
ez  quick  ez  she  found  out  how  much  money 
was  left  her,  that  's  all.  She  never  give  a 
thought  to  how  it  would  look. 

I  take  notice  she  's  been  walkin'  the 
streets  for  a  year  past  with  one  o'  them 
high  spring-out  collars  on  her  neck;  an'  so, 
ez  I  say,  I  'm  not  surprised.  A  cupalo  is 
thess  about  the  next  step.  A'  out-springin' 
collar  like  that  sets  off  a  slim  woman  — 
gives  her  a  sort  o'  grandeur;  but  it  's 
a  style  thet  can't  be  trifled  with.  Sally 
Ann  don't  look  nothin'  but  highty-tighty 
an'  overloaded  in  hers. 

A  thing  like  that  would  be  a  turrible 
stand-off  to  a  timid,  pore  person  come  to 
ask  a  favor.  Yas,  I  mean  the  high- 
spreadin'  sort  the  queens  wear  in  the  pic- 
tures—  like  that  'n*  in  Sonny's  study. 
You  Ve  seen  Sally  Ann  wear  it.  Why, 


WEALTH  AND  RICHES  37 

that  makes  half  o'  her  conspicuosity. 
It  would  take  a  heap  o'  courage  to  pass 
up  a  'nmble  petition  over  a  collar  like 
that. 

Of  co'se  for  queens  they  're  all  right 
enough.  A  petition  has  to  go  th'ough 
sev'al  hands  an*  be  disinfected  befo'  it 
reaches  them,  anyway,  an'  the  collar  thess 
about  expresses  it. 

Yas,  she  's  give  that  top  cupalo-room 
to  po'  little  Teddy,  so  's  he  can  amuse 
hisself  lookin'  out  the  winders  an' 
p'intin'  out  things  with  his  crutch.  I  don't 
say  but  what  she  was  took  aback  when 
he  asked  for  it.  She  had  laid  out  to  fur- 
nish it  for  a  spare  room  for  conspicuous 
visitors,  same  ez  the  Hyfflers  does  with 
theirs. 

It  's  good  Sally  Ann  ain't  a  man.  She  'd 
set  out  to  be  a  leadin '  citizen  first  thing  she 
done,  an'  she  ain't  noways  fitted  for  it. 
Yas,  no  doubt  she  does  think  she  's  about 
the  leadin'  woman  in  Simpkinsville  to-day, 
but  that  's  harmless  enough.  Nobody  else 
don't  think  so. 

My  idee  of  a  leader,  doctor,  it  's  one  the 
best  people  '11  all  love  to  f oiler  —  not  the 
one  they  're  continually  obligated  to  look 


38  SONNY  S  FATHER 

up  to  with  thanks.  A  man  like  that  is 
shore  to  turn  driver  some  day,  an'  he  's 
liable  to  do  it  sudden. 

Sir?  Sonny?  Well,  hardly.  Not  yet, 
anyway.  He  's  got  the  right  sperit  for 
leadership,  but  he  's  too  young  yet,  an* 
he  's  too  occupied  with  his  books.  No; 
Sonny  '11  always  be  ap '  to  think  out  things 
to  be  done,  the  way  he  does  now,  but  he  '11 
be  likely  to  git  other  folks  interested 
enough  to  go  on  with  'em.  Well,  that  's 
so.  That  is  leadin',  in  a  way. 

Yas,  you  're  right  there.  A  number  o' 
our  "  leadin'  men  "  has  left  public  works 
named  after  'em.  The  man  thet  founds  a 
charity  an'  names  it  after  a  member  of  his 
own  family,  well,  his  heart  's  divided, 
that  's  all.  An'  ef  he  names  it  after  hisself, 
why,  it  's  undivided.  An'  the  more  mag- 
nificent the  edifice  is,  the  more  he  's  com- 
plimentin'  hisself. 

Oh,  no,  I  ain't  puttin'  in  no  objection  — 
cert'n'y  not.  We  're  glad  to  have  chapels 
an'  town  clocks  built  an'  named  after  any- 
body thet  ain't  a  disgrace. 

But  they  's  one  thing  that  I  hate  to  see, 
Doc,  an'  that  's  the  way  human  creatures 
is  everlastin'ly  buildin'  memorials  o'  their 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  39 

sorrers.  I  don't  see  why  we  should  cele- 
brate only  when  we  're  scourged. 

I  've  often  thought  thet  God  might  enjoy 
the  novelty  of  havin'  a  steeple  rise  up  into 
the  sky  in  joy  an'  thanksgivin ',  instid  o' 
which  most  of  'em  is  sent  up  with  a  wail. 
Ef  houses  for  orphans  is  needed,  —  an' 
it  's  a  livin'  disgrace  thet  they  are,  —  but 
ef  they  are,  why  not  build  one  when  God 
sends  a  little  child  into  a  home  instid  o' 
when  he  sees  fit  to  take  it  away? 

The  lady  thet  give  the  "  author's 
readin'  "  here,  she  was  tellin'  us  about  a 
little  mountain  settlement  where  the  young 
engaged  couples  paid  for  the  stained-glass 
winders,  ez  love  come  along,  to  celebrate 
their  happiness  —  little  bright-colored 
panes  to  stand  for  joy  an'  to  fetch  the  color 
of  it  into  the  worship.  Now,  that  struck 
me  ez  purty.  I  wish  't  they  was  more 
thankfulness  brought  into  our  religion,  an' 
less  mournin'.  Not  thet  I  'd  take  out  one 
sweet  memorial  of  the  dead. 

Of  co  'se,  ez  we  git  along  further  in  sper- 
itual  growth,  an'  come  to  realize  the  unim- 
portance of  death  an'  the  importance  of 
life,  a  number  o'  these  thing  '11  pass  away 
of  theirselves. 


40  SONNY'S  FATHER 

Monuments  commemoratin'  personal 
sorrers  is  ap'  to  be  selfish  things,  to  my 
mind.  When  they  stand  for  principle, 
why,  that  's  different.  Sometimes  I  think 
the  world  shows  mo'  selfishness  in  sorrer 
than  it  does  in  anything  else,  anyhow. 

Yas,  that  's  so.  Sonny  an'  Mary  Eliza- 
beth always  makes  thank-off erin's  when 
the  little  ones  arrive,  but  I  didn't  know  it 
was  known. 

You  see,  babies  costs  consider 'ble,  an'  to 
some  it  might  seem  the  hardest  time  to 
give  anything;  an'  ef  they  spoke  of  it,  it 
might  look  like  ez  ef  they  meant  to  reprove 
others  for  not  doin'  likewise. 

Givin'  in  the  right  sperit,  though,  with 
thought  an'  prudence,  never  seemed  to 
make  anybody  any  poorer.  Them  thet 
gives  that  a-way  is  ap'  to  spend  keerful, 
an'  many  a  one  thet  thinks  he  can't  afford 
it  lets  his  money  leak  out  in  driblets.  Sech 
folks  ez  that  rarely  saves  anything. 

Sir  ?  Do  I  believe  in  savin '  ?  Why,  what 
makes  you  ask  me  sech  a  thing  ez  that, 
doctor?  Ef  I  did  n't,  I  'd  be  a  turrible  sin- 
ner, for  I  've  always  done  it. 

Before  Sonny  arrived,  he  was  always 
due,  —  for  seventeen  year,  —  we  put  by  a 


WEALTH  AND   RICHES  41 

little,  each  year  thess  in  case;  an'  quick 
ez  he  hove  in  sight,  why,  this  whole  gang 
o'  grandchild 'en  seemed  to  loom  up  in  the 
distance. 

You  see,  when  a  man  has  a  child,  he 
takes  all  the  risk  they  is  on  grandchild 'en. 
Sol  bought  mo '  land  ez  I  was  able  to  work 
it.  I  think  it  's  a  man's  duty  to  his  feller- 
men  to  fix  things  so  thet  neither  he  nor  any 
o'  his  helpless  child 'en  won't  be  left  on 
their  hands. 

But  that  's  a  mighty  different  thing  from 
hoa'din'  money  for  money's  sake.  That, 
an'  the  pride  of  possession  which  comes 
with  it,  is  one  o'  the  special  pizens  thet 
we  've  got  to  try  to  keep  from  our  child 'en, 
far  ez  we  can. 

Talk  about  pride  of  possession,  I  reckon 
a  certain  amount  of  it  is  inborn;  or,  ef  it 
ain't,  it 's  learned  mighty  young.  Even 
the  little  child 'en  show  it.  I  know  one  day 
this  spring  I  was  settin'  out  here  on  this 
po'ch,  an'  happened  to  overhear  the  little 
folks  jabberin'  out  there  under  the  oak. 
Half  a  dozen  o'  the  neighbors'  child 'en  was 
there  with  'em.  Well,  they  was  talkin' 
along,  one  way  an'  another,  when  Sally 
Ann's  third  girl,  last  marriage,  —  little 


42  SONNY'S  FATHER 

Annabel,  —  she  ups  an'  says,  says  she, 
"  We-all  's  goin'  to  have  somethin'  at  our 
house  thet  you-all  ain't  got!  >: 

Well,  they  was  silence  in  a  minute,  an' 
she  kep'  on,  "  We  goin'  to  have  a  cupalo 
at  our  house  "  (tell  the  truth,  that  was  the 
first  I  'd  heerd  of  it).  Of  eo'se  nobody 
knowed  what  she  meant,  more  'n  thet ' '  cu- 
palo "  had  a  fureign  sound.  But  that  was 
enough  for  Margie  Porter. 

Do  you  know,  doctor,  these  peaked-faced 
lame  child 'en  always  seem  to  me  to  be 
quick-thoughted.  Pore  little  crooked  Mar- 
gie was  settin'  in  the  swing,  her  face  all 
eyes.  Quick  ez  Annabel  come  out  with 
that  word  "  cupalo,"  why,  she  chirps  up: 
11  That  ain't  anything!  I've  had  the  spilar 
melingitis!  '  An'  she  give  herself  a  little 
hitch  of  superiority  ez  she  cut  her  eyes 
around  to  see  the  effect. 

It  seemed  for  a  minute  thet  Margie  was 
ahead,  but  purty  soon  I  heerd  Mary 
Blanks 's  little  Jamesie's  voice.  Them 
youngsters  is  so  thin  their  voices  is  ez 
dry  an'  ha'sh  ez  a  katydid's;  an'  sence  I 
know  their  mother  deprives  'em  of  butter 
in  Lent,  I  imagine  their  th'oats  needs  'ilin'. 
But  to  go  back  to  this  here  rivalry. 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  43 

When  I  heerd  Jamesie  pipe  up,  I 
chuckled,  an'  says  I  to  myself,  "  What  on 
earth  is  he  got  to  crow  over  ?  ' ' 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  we  're  goin'  to  have 
a  sheriff's  sale  over  to  our  farm!  "  That 
was  a  purty  heavy  piece  of  artillery,  an' 
they  all  felt  it ;  but  the  silence  it  made  was 
soon  broke  by  who  but  our  little  Marthy! 
Pore  little  thing!  I  know  she  had  been 
suff erin '  from  the  first  challenge,  an '  I  half 
wondered,  though  I  didn't  think  about  it, 
how  she  was  goin'  to  make  out.  Well,  doc, 
an'  how  do  you  think  she  done?  You  could 
guess  for  a  month  an'  I  doubt  ef  you  'd  hit 
what  she  bragged  on  —  an'  it  's  right  in 
yo'  line,  too.  When  she  come  out  with  it, 
I  all  but  give  myself  away  gigglin'  here 
behind  the  vines. 

Says  she,  "  We  've  got  the  moest  cJiil- 
d'en."  What  do  you  think  o'  that,  now? 
Yas ;  an'  not  satisfied  with  that,  she  started 
a-tackin'  on  to  it.  Says  she,  "  We  've  got 
three  boys  an'  two  girls,  an'  "  —  an'  with 
that  she  took  a  long  breath  an'  she  out  with 
it:  "  An'  mama  sewin'  on  little  teenchy 
sleeves,  an'  I  wouldn't  be  surpriged  ef 
she  's  goin'  to  get  some  more  purty  soon !  ': 
Marthy  always  says  "  surpriged  "  for 


44  SONNY'S  FATHER 

surprised,  an'  we  let  it  alone.  Sounds 
cunnin'. 

Well,  they  kep'  on  back  an*  fo'th,  an* 
I  'lowed  thet  every  one  there  had  had  his 
fling,  when  I  see  pore  Madge,  the  Sutton 
child  that  Mary  Elizabeth  an'  Sonny  's 
took  to  raise.  She  was  layin'  down,  twistin' 
a  wreath  out  o'  some  clovers  she  had 
brought  in  from  the  fields,  but  I  see  her 
fingers  moved  purty  slow,  an'  I  was 
wushin'  I  could  put  some  words  in  her 
mouth  to  brag  on  —  I  never  like  to  see  an 
orphan  browbeat.  But  I  need  n't  Ve  wer- 
ried.  What  does  she  do  when  she  see  her 
chance  but  set  up  an'  yell  out  like  ez  ef  she 
had  the  best  brag  o'  the  lot,  "  /  'm 
'dopted!  ''  An'  I  don't  know  but  ef  I  was 
to  git  the  popular  vote  now,  I  'd  find  thet 
they  all  felt  she  was  ahead. 

I  believe  all  the  child 'en  at  home  con- 
sider thet  she  's  somethin'  special  because 
she  's  adopted.  An'  it  's  a  good  thing; 
makes  'em  treat  her  respectful. 

What  's  that  you  say,  doc?  Oh,  yas;  I 
don't  doubt  a-many  a  one  says  it  's  ridic'- 
lous  for  them  to  take  another  child  to  raise, 
but  I  don't  see  why. 

Big  families  is  gen 'ally  the  ones  where 


That's  the  way  all  the  orphans'll  be  took 
care  of  when  —  when  the  millennium 
comes,  ez  you  say. 


WEALTH  AND   RICHES  45 

they  's  most  room.  I  've  seen  many  an 
only  child  fill  up  a  spacious  home  so  tight 
thet  they  never  seemed  to  be  even  room 
in  it  for  toleration  of  other  children. 

An',  besides,  a  little  stranger  comin'  into 
a  big  family,  why,  it  '11  git  tied  up  in  num- 
berless little  affections;  an'  then,  too,  they 
have  the  wholesome  rough  an'  tumble  of 
holdin'  their  own.  Oh,  it  's  great!  An'  I 
think  it  's  ez  good  for  the  other  child 'en  ez 
it  is  for  the  adopted.  That  's  the  way  all 
the  orphans  '11  be  took  care  of  when  — 
when  the  millennium  comes,  ez  you  say. 

Of  co'se  the  childless,  why,  they  're  the 
special  ones  the  Lord  seemed  to  send  into 
the  world  to  nurture  the  fatherless.  But 
they  don't  often  see  it  so,  an'  of  co'se  many 
a  one  ain  't  got  no  gifts  that  a-way.  What  's 
that  you  say?  "  Thankless  "?  Well,  I 
don't  know.  Not  more  'n  anything  else. 
Besides,  who  thet  helps  for  helpin's  sake 
thinks  of  thanks? 

No,  that  's  a  mistake.  I  Ve  known  some 
o'  the  most  ungrateful  own  child 'en  on 
earth  to  break  their  parents'  hearts;  an' 
more  'n  one  adopted  son  or  daughter  have 
I  seen  grow  up  to  be  a  staff  an'  a  stay. 

No;    that  's  the  eternal  excuse  of  the 


46  SONNY S   FATHER 

world's  shirkers  —  that  an'  "  bein'  afeard 
o'  what  inheritance  they  might  have  to  deal 
with."  I  always  think  when  I  hear  sech 
ez  that :  ' '  Well,  ef  I  was  you,  I  'd  ruther 
take  my  chances  on  any  perfect-lookin'  lit- 
tle child  with  a  clair  eye,  an'  raise  him  the 
best  I  could,  than  to  know  he  was  the  flesh 
an'  blood  of  folks  thet  was  so  afeard  of 
makin'  a  pore  investment."  An'  I  think 
I  'm  right. 

But  I  cert'n'y  was  tickled  over  Marthy's 
braggin'  on  the  child 'en.  Showed  they 
know  how  they  're  valued.  You  know,  I 
think  with  child 'en  it  's  often  "  Held  high, 
act  high. ' ' 

Yas;  it  is  a  pity  about  Mary  Blanks 's 
bein'  sold  out.  She  means  well,  but  of 
co'se  things  lef  to  a  paid  overseer  's  ap' 
to  go  wrong;  an'  ever  sence  she  's  been 
runnin'  three  clubs,  why,  this  has  been  in 
sight. 

A  woman  ain't  no  smarter  'n  a  man  in 
that  respect.  Quick  ez  a  man  starts  to  put 
in  too  much  time  at  clubs,  why,  his  business 
suffers. 

I  Ve  got  a  funny  little  notion  about  Sally 
Ann's  cupalo,  doctor,  ever  s.ence  I  Ve 
knew  thet  it  's  a-goin'  to  cost  exac'ly  the 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  47 

amount  o'  Mis'  Blanks 's  mortgage.  You  'd 
think  thet  bein'  ez  Mary  Blanks  is  her  own 
aunt,  mother 's  side  —  thet  — 

Of  co'se  I  don't  say  thet  because  they  're 
kin  thet  her  cupalo  an'  her  aunt's  mort- 
gage needs  to  be  related,  but  they  might. 

Ez  you  say,  when  the  millennium 
comes  —  but  of  co'se  they  won't  be  no 
mortgages  then,  even  ef  they  're  any  wid- 
ders,  which  God  grant  they  may  not  be, 
or  cupalos  either. 

A  widder  is  always  a  distress-ed  object 
to  me,  don't  keer  what  circumstances  I 
seem  to  see  her  in.  Sally  Ann  with  that 
high  collar  on  her  short  neck  under  that 
crape  veil,  with  all  her  toggery,  is  even 
more  pitiful  'n  some  I  Ve  seen  thet 
mourned  in  silence.  I  think  they  're  usu- 
ally honest  enough,  but  they  're  mighty 
various. 

That  veil  o'  Sally  Ann's  is  thess  ez  hon- 
est in  every  one  of  its  deadly  creases  ez 
the  collar  thet  protests  against  it.  It  's  all 
in  her. 

Oh,  yes,  she  cert'n'y  did  take  on  in  her 
first  grief,  in  both  widderhoods.  Tillie 
Blackstone  says  she  tried  her  best  to  lose 
her  mind  the  first  few  weeks,  but  she 


48  SONNY'S  FATHER 

was  n't  able.  Tillie  is  a  tumble  game- 
maker.  She  's  so  able  to  do  without  any 
husband  thet  she  ain  't  ez  considerate  ez  she 
might  be  of  the  different  dispositioned. 

Ez  to  heavenly  cupalos,  or  millennial 
ones,  ef  they  is  any,  they  won't  be  no  nov- 
elty. Every  man  thet  's  been  denied  one 
here  can  have  it  ef  he  wants  it  then;  an' 
he  '11  build  it  to  suit  his  self,  not  to  spy  on 
his  neighbors.  Yas;  Sally  did  brag  thet 
she  could  see  the  inside  of  seven  kitchens 
from  the  scaffoldin'  of  hers. 

She?  Oh,  she  's  up  there  every  day 
makin'  some  new  discovery.  Climbs  like 
a  cat.  Grew  up  in  tree-tops  mainly.  Yas, 
she  'lows  thet  when  she  gits  a  spy-gla^s 
she  '11  be  able  to  see  who  's  comin'  an' 
goin'  in  every  church  door  in  town. 

No  doubt  she  '11  be  able  to  set  in  her 
tower  an'  watch  her  aunt's  sheriff's  sale, 
ef  she  's  a  mind  to ;  but  she  won't.  She  '11 
be  on  the  ground.  She  's  already  tried  to 
bespeak  uninterrupted  bids  on  some  o' 
the  best  chiny,  an'  them  cut-glass  gob- 
lets John  bought  at  the  Chicago  Fair.  She 
may  buy  'em,  but  she  won't  git  'em  for 
nothin'. 

Yas;   we  Ve  got  it  arranged  about  the 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  49 

biddin'  at  the  sale.  The  only  person  thet 
ain't  to  be  overreached  is  pore  Mary 
Blanks  herself.  She  intends  to  bid  in  sech 
things  ez  she  '11  need  for  a  hotel,  —  tin 
wash-sets  an'  thick  dishes  —  for  use  in 
argument  —  an'  a  few  sech  suitable  things. 

But  what  am  I  tellin'  you  for?  Didn't 
I  see  yore  handwrite  on  the  subscription 
list?  Can't  fool  me  ef  you  did  sign  "  In- 
cog." That  's  too  much  like  the  language 
of  prescriptions  to  be  much  of  a  disguise 
for  a  doctor,  anyway.  Yas;  an'  I  'm  glad 
you  could  see  yore  way  to  put  down  so 
much. 

No ;  Sally  Ann  would  n't  sign.  She  said 
she  'd  stand  by  her  Aunt  Mame  in  private, 
an'  I  reckon  likely  she  will  —  in  little 
things  like  the  cut  glass  an'  casters. 

Yas;  she  's  offered  to  keep  the  pair  o' 
pea-fowls,  too  —  to  keep  'em  for  their  feed 
an'  increase.  Mary  Blanks  she  won't  sell 
'em  thess  on  account  o'  pore  John  buyin' 
'em.  Sally  Ann  is  so  took  up  with  the  idee 
o'  seein'  peacocks  strut  around  that  cu- 
palo  she  's  buildin'  thet  she  'd  pay  'most 
anything  for  'em  ef  it  was  necessary.  As 
to  the  increase,  I  doubt  ef  they  '11  do  more 
for  her  'n  they  Ve  done  for  Mary. 


50  SONNY  S  FATHER 

I  never  admired  anything  ez  vainglori- 
ous ez  a  peacock,  myself.  I  could  set  for 
hours,  though,  an'  hold  one  o'  their  tail- 
feathers  in  my  hand,  thess  a-lookin'  it  in 
the  eye  with  delight.  They  're  cert'n'y 
wonderful.  But,  of  co'se,  my  mind  would 
be  on  God,  an '  not  on  the  feather.  A  single 
piece  of  perfection  like  that  would  be  an- 
swer enough  for  me  to  all  the  infidels  in 
the  world,  ef  they  wasn't  answered  at 
every  turn.  But,  somehow,  the  burnishin' 
of  a  bird's  wing  is  sech  a  gratuitous  exhi- 
bition of  lovin'  thought  an'  divine  power 
thet  I  take  p'tic'lar  pleasure  in  it. 

The  red  of  a  robin's  breast  has  claired 
a  troubled  sky  for  me  more  'n  once-t,  doc- 
tor. I  ricollect  one  day,  years  ago,  when 
Sonny  was  a  little  mite,  an*  he  was  sick, 
an'  we  couldn't  indooce  him  to  take  no 
medicine,  an*  you  was  called  away,  an'  I 
come  out  here  in  desperation,  an'  thess  ez 
I  stepped  out  I  happened  to  hear  a  chirp 
right  above  my  head,  an'  I  looked  up  into 
that  tree  an'  I  see  a  father  robin,  his  breast 
a-shinin'  in  the  sun  like  copper  afire.  It 
was  like  a  mericle,  it  was  so  lustrious. 

Well,  after  the  first  surprise,  seemed  like 
the  only  thing  I  saw  was  God,  an'  I  thess 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  51 

lifted  my  eyes  clair  upward,  an',  doctor,  ef 
God  the  Father  didn't  smile  at  me  from 
the  blue  spot  there  between  them  branches, 
an'  let  me  know  thet  I  had  no  occasion  to 
worry,  why,  I  'm  not  here  to-day.  I  looked 
thess  a  minute,  an'  then  I  turned  back  into 
the  house,  an'  my  heart  was  at  peace. 

No ;  I  did  n't  tell  wife  about  the  robin,  — 
she  might  'a'  thought  that  fantastic,  —  but 
I  told  her  I  'd  been  comforted,  an'  thet 
God's  everlastin'  arms  was  right  under  us 
all,  an'  that  we  was  actin'  more  scandalous 
in  our  Father's  house  than  that  pore  little 
sick  baby  was  in  his,  resistin'  us  in  fear  an* 
ignorance. 

An'  then  I  patted  her  shoulder,  an'  her 
face  claired  off,  an'  she  remembered  a  kind 
o'  spiced  preserves  thet  Sonny  liked,  an' 
she  went  an'  secreted  the  medicine  in  it, 
an'  fetched  it  in  to  the  boy;  an'  when  you 
dropped  in  that  night  you  said  she  might 
take  off  her  clo'es  an'  git  some  sleep.  She 
had  n't  undressed  for  four  nights. 

Now,  ef  I  had  n't  saw  God's  love  th'ough 
the  robin  an'  fetched  the  joy  of  it  in  to  her, 
she  'd  never  'a'  thought  o'  them  spiced  pre- 
serves on  earth. 

No;  cert'n'y  I  didn't  mention  the  robin 


52  SONNY  S   FATHER 

to  you,  an'  you  a  busy  doctor.  Of  co'se 
not.  Besides,  I  wasn't  ez  free-spoken 
about  sech  things  them  days  ez  I  am  in 
my  old  age.  I  've  often  thought  sence  then, 
doctor,  thet  nearly  all  our  worries  come 
from  mistrust,  or  forgitfulness,  ef  we  only 
knowed  it. 

Did  you  ever  take  notice  to  the  little 
children  at  a  house  of  bereavement,  when 
the  father  or  mother  is  took  away,  an' 
maybe  the  props  knocked  from  everything, 
how  they  thess  walk  around  with  company 
manners  an'  unconcern?  They  may  be 
mystified,  but  they  ain't  never  uneasy. 

They  're  always  a  lesson  to  me.  No  mat- 
ter what  the  calamity  is,  the  little  ones 
seem  to  know  they  're  in  their  father's 
house,  an'  they  don't  never  question. 

The  grown  folks  thet  have  been  in- 
structed in  faith  an'  ought  to  know  better, 
why,  they  're  scared  all  but  to  death.  You 
see,  the  child 'en  they  Ve  got  the  right  of 
it.  They  're  always  took  care  of,  an'  so 
are  we.  Now,  don't  it  seem  to  you  thet, 
no  matter  what  comes,  we  ought  to  feel  thet 
the  earth  is  our  Father's  house,  an'  thet 
we  won't  be  forgot  in  it? 

What  's  that  you  say?    Yas,  that  's  true. 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  53 

My  mother-in-law  she  did  show  that  child- 
like faith  when  her  troubles  come  —  an' 
thess  ca'mly  packed  up  an'  come  to  live 
with  us,  which  was  right  enough,  though  it 
was  disconcertin'  for  a  while. 

For  ten  years  she  abode  with  us  in  peace 
and  harmony;  but  she  had  to  be  discip- 
lined a  little  before  I  got  things  fixed. 
Not  thet  they  was  anything  I  could  put 
my  finger  on,  exactly;  but  I  know  I  soon 
found  I  was  losin'  my  relish  for  her,  an' 
I  knowed  that  wouldn't  never  do,  an'  so 
I  straightened  things  out.  She  was  ez 
pure  gold  in  character  ez  she  was  deef  an' 
aggervatin'  in  little  things. 

These  over-industrious  women  is  ap'  to 
be  too  rigorous.  She?  Why,  she  's  left 
more  patchwork,  an'  linen  she  's  wove,  an' 
sampler-work,  than  any  two  women  I  ever 
saw. 

Yas;  Mary  Elizabeth  's  got  four  sam- 
plers made  by  four  grandmothers  an'  aunts 
o'  the  child 'en  —  three  already  bestowed, 
an'  I  don't  doubt  the  fourth  '11  be  claimed 
in  time.  I  like  'em  to  have  sech  ez  that. 
It  's  stren'thenin'  to  character.  Oh,  yas, 
they  '11  have  a  little  handed-down  jewelry, 
too.  I  don't  mind  that.  I  like  it. 


54  SONNY S   FATHER 

Why,  I  've  bought  the  little  girls  a  fin- 
ger-ring apiece,  with  purty  blue  an'  red 
sets  in  'em,  to  put  on  when  they  're  dressed 
up  —  not  too  big  an'  expensive-lookin'; 
thess  modest  little  stones  to  shine  th'ough 
their  little  mittens,  ladylike  an'  sweet.  I 
never  like  to  see  a  woman's  jewelry  out- 
flash  her  eyes. 

Yas,  I  want  our  little  girls  to  care  enough 
for  dress  an'  fixin's  to  be  properly  set  off 
when  they  're  grown  up.  'Most  anything 
carried  to  an  extreme  becomes  pernicious. 
You  know  Sally  Ann  claims  that  jewelry 
in  a  bureau  drawer  is  goin'  to  waste,  an' 
that  's  why  she  wears  them  green  emeralds 
with  her  crape. 

Even  what  I  said  about  hoa'din'  money 
can't  be  took  too  literal.  Of  co'se  we  all 
need  to  keep  a  little  money  piled  up  some- 
wheres  to  draw  on  in  an  emergency  —  a 
little  more  'n  we  're  likely  to  need,  too. 
Every  child  on  the  place  here  's  got  his 
little  savin 's-bank,  but  I  gen'ally  see 
to  it  thet  the  money  stands  for  some 
p'tic'lar  thing,  not  thess  for  possession  of 
money. 

One  he  's  savin'  for  the  mules  he  '11  need 
to  work  his  piece  o'  land  by  an'  by,  an' 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  55 

another  for  somethin'  else.  The  second 
boy  he  don't  never  carry  hisn  very  far. 
He  buys  books  mostly,  an'  electricity  fix- 
in 's.  Yas;  he  put  up  that  door-bell,  an' 
it  rings,  too  —  rings  ef  it  's  teched. 

Do  I  like  it?  Oh,  yas;  I  s'pose  I  like 
it,  but  I  don't,  really.  I  like  the  different 
knocks  I  Ve  known  for  years,  thess  a 
knuckle  or  a  calkin '-cane  or  umbrella,  or 
maybe  a  latch  rattle,  the  way  you  always 
done.  It  's  almost  ez  bad  ez  livin'  in  a  city 
to  haf  to  open  yore  front  door  an'  not  know 
who  's  there. 

Ef  I  'm  inside  when  it  rings,  I  clair  my 
th  'oat  bef o '  I  know  it  —  then  I  'm  mad  be- 
cause I  've  been  flustered. 

What  's  that?  Why,  no,  I  never  bother 
about  what  they  spend  their  money  for. 
Sometimes  they  waste  it  on  trifles,  but 
that  's  better  'n  their  bein'  bossed  in  every- 
thing. 

Little  Marthy,  now,  she  's  savin*  for  a 
"  secret  ";  an'  likely  enough  it  's  for  some 
finery  got  up  for  old  men,  an'  I  '11  have  to 
wear  it  on  my  head  or  neck,  somehow.  I 
always  suspicion  their  secrets. 

Yas,  I  reckon  the  second  boy  '11  go  to 
college.  All  his  tastes  run  that  a-way. 


56  SONNY'S  FATHER 

Sonny  's  able  to  send  him,  too,  ef  he  '11  be 
satisfied  to  go  an '  live  with  prudence. 

In  my  opinion,  no  boy  ought  to  be  able 
to  live  in  college  without  prudence.  It  's 
ruination.  No;  I  suppose  ef  he  goes  to 
college  he  won't  want  no  land,  an'  it  won't 
cost  any  more  to  educate  him  'n  what  it 
will  to  give  the  others  a  start.  I  never 
used  to  like  the  way  a  college  education 
seemed  to  give  a  man  a  distaste  for  the 
plow.  Seemed  like  they  went  away  an' 
learned  to  know  better. 

But  Sonny  says  that  ain't  so.  An'  he 
claims  thet  the  man  thet  writes  a  song  for 
men  to  plow  by  does  more  for  the  cultiva- 
tion o'  the  soil  than  ef  he  was  triplets 
plowin'  with  discontent.  An'  I  can  see 
how  it  's  true,  although  the  writin '  of  songs 
seems  like  a  child's  play  for  an  able-bodied 
man. 

Of  co'se  when  a  man  goes  away  to  col- 
lege, why,  he  gits  a  chance  to  see  things 
from  a  distance;  an'  ef  he  can  look  over 
the  plowman's  head  an'  discern  blessin's 
hid  from  the  face  turned  to  the  ground,  an' 
weave  'em  into  a  song  thet  '11  make  the 
singer  lift  up  his  eyes  an'  listen  once-t  in 
a  while,  why,  I  say  God  bless  him,  let  him 


WEALTH   AND   RICHES  57 

do  nothin'  but  make  up  songs  for  the  toil- 
ers, an'  I  believe  the  Lord  o'  the  harvest  '11 
give  him  credit  for  days '  work,  too. 

Yas;  Sonny  has  writ  a  hoeman's  song, 
an'  Jim  Peters  he  's  set  it  to  music,  an' 
they  say  some  o'  the  young  men  whistles 
it  an'  dresses  by  it  in  the  mornin'  when 
they  git  up  to  go  in  the  fields.  It  's  got 
consid'ble  love  hints  runnin'  along  half 
hid  th'ough  it,  an'  a  swing  to  it  for  all 
the  world  like  a  lively  hoe  motion.  I 
declare,  in  some  o'  the  verses  you  can  ac- 
chilly  seem  to  see  the  corn  growin'  an' 
smell  the  ground. 

Last  Saturday  week  the  black  fellers 
come  up  an'  serenaded  us,  an'  they  sung 
it  all,  —  four  parts  with  a  hoe-fling  cho- 
rus,—  an'  I  tell  you  it  ain't  ca'culated  to 
make  young  folks  live  indoors  —  not  whilst 
they  're  young,  anyway. 

Yas,  they  's  life  an'  happiness  a-plenty 
in  cheerful  labor  in  the  open  fields,  an'  a 
mighty  slim  chance  for  the  doctor.  Why, 
they  's  even  wealth  in  it  ef  it  's  lived  right ; 
not  riches,  maybe,  but  wealth. 

You  needn't  laugh,  doctor;  I  meant 
what  I  said  —  an'  I  stick  to  it. 

Why,  the  way  I  read  Scripture,  it  seems 


58  SONNY'S  FATHER 

to  me  we  're  given  to  understand  thet 
heaven  is  a  home  of  wealth.  ' '  Many  man- 
sions "  sounds  that  a- way,  I  'm  shore;  an' 
golden  streets  shows  thet  they  won't  any- 
thing be  considered  too  good  for  use. 

An'  sometimes  I  've  thought  thet  maybe 
it  meant  to  give  us  to  understand  thet 
simple  riches  —  like  gold  —  was  to  be  trod 
underfoot. 

An'  all  the  Revelational  jewels,  why, 
they  seem  to  be  set  either  in  the  walls  or 
doors  or  somewhere,  not  let  loose  in  piles, 
to  be  swapped  or  squabbled  over.  No 
riches  to  hoard,  but  thess  wealth  to  enjoy. 


Ill 

THE   WOMEN 

ELL,  doc,  I  don't  wonder  you 
wonder.  That  is,  ef  it  's  thess 
broke  in  on  you  —  the  stir 
among  the  women,  an'  what  it  's 
come  to.  I  ain't  quite  so  thunder-struck, 
because  I  've  had  time  on  my  hands  an' 
patience,  an'  I  Ve  been  lookin'  on  an' 
watchin'  whilst  you  Ve  been  tendin'  the 
sick. 

For  perfessional  lady  speakers  to  come 
to  Simpkinsville,  an'  for  our  women  to  go 
about  wearin'  badges  an'  to  have  their  ex- 
penses paid  aroun'  the  country  ez  dele- 
gates, ain't  nothin'  mo'  'n  they  Ve  been 
havin'  all  over  the  continent  for  years. 
It  's  only  come  home  to  us,  that  's  all. 

It  was  funny,  when  you  think  of  it, 
though,  for  'em  to  let  me  into  the  "  moth- 
ers' meetinV  I  was  determined  to  see 

59 


60  SONNY'S  FATHER 

what  they  was  to  it  ef  I  could,  so  I  engi- 
neered some  —  offered  to  take  charge,  an ' 
light  up  the  hall  for  'em,  free-gratis-for- 
nothin';  an'  that  carried  it. 

Of  co'se  they  nachelly  hesitated,  —  an' 
me  a  man,  —  but  you  know  Sally  Ann  is 
great  for  savin'  a  dime,  an'  she  laughed, 
an'  says  she,  "  Why,  Grampa  Jones  he  's 
man-woman-and-child,  all  in  one,  anyhow. ' ' 
Of  co'se  that  made  a  laugh,  an'  they  give 
in.  So  I  thess  handed  ol'  nigger  Joe 
Towns  a  dollar,  —  that  's  his  gen'al  fee  for 
openin'  up  an'  lightin',  an'  I  wouldn't 
have  him  deprived,  —  an'  I  see  the  whole 
thing  from  the  openin'  to  the  close.  Yas, 
it  cost  some,  but  it  was  cheap  —  consid- 
erin'  the  show. 

I  tell  you,  it  's  an  edjercation  to  a  man 
to  git  into  sech  a  crowd,  an'  to  hear  the 
women  hoi'  fo'th.  An'  I  heerd  some  things 
I  hope  to  remember,  an'  to  live  by  mo'  or 
less,  f 'om  this  time  on. 

Of  co'se  I  went  on  account  o'  the  child 'en 
mainly.  I  ain't  denyin'  all  curiosity,  mind 
you;  but  I  knowed  their  mother  she 
couldn't  leave  them  at  bedtime,  —  most 
mothers  can't,  —  an'  I  allowed  thet  ef  they 
was  good  words  bein'  distributed  for 


THE   WOMEN  61 

mothers,  I  could  collect  'em  an'  fetch  'em 
home  about  ez  well  ez  the  next  one. 

Sir?    "  How  many?  " 

Well,  I  suppose  they  was  maybe  forty  or 
fifty  women  there,  all  counted. 

You  ricollec'  ten  year  ago  come  Christ- 
'mas,  when  Abe  Bosworth's  sist'-in-law 
come  down  here  f 'om  Ultima  Thool  an'  lec- 
tured on  women  exhorters  in  the  churches, 
they  wasn't  but  eleven  present,  an'  they 
was  nearer  the  froth  than  they  was  to  the 
sediment  of  Simpkinsville  folks.  The  best 
ones  wanted  to  go,  but  they  didn't  dast; 
opposition  run  too  high. 

Well,  she  said  some  good  things  thet  's 
been  quoted  variously  ever  sence,  an',  ez 
Miss  Phoebe  Kellogg  says,  them  'leven 
women  was  the  leaven  thet  leavened  the 
whole  lot.  Miss  Phoebe  will  have  her  joke 
on  words,  an'  sometimes  a  little  thing  like 
that  '11  fix  a  number  in  yo'  mind  when  it 
could  n't  never  be  done  in  prose. 

Yas,  ten  year  ago  only  'leven  o'  the 
light-weights  floated  into  a  woman's 
meetin',  even  when  it  had  consider 'ble 
Baptist  sanction,  an'  now  the  best  of  our 
women  rides  up  the  middle  of  our  roads 
astride  of  a  wheel,  an'  most  of  'em  tagged 


62  SONNY  S   FATHER 

at  that,  'n'  we  don't  think  ez  much  of  it  ez 
we  did  of  that  argument  for  women  to 
speak  an'  pray  in  meetin'. 

Yas,  I  counted  forty-three  befo'  some 
started  to  change  seats  an'  I  lost  count,  but 
I  could  come  within  one  of  countin'  'em 
now,  from  memory.  I  know  everybody  thet 
was  there,  an',  ez  I  told  you  over  the  fence 
this  mornin',  they  was  mostly  all  maiden 
ladies. 

Of  co'se  they  wasn't  nothin'  to  hender 
them  attendin';  an',  like  ez  not,  most  of 
'em  went  to  repo't  to  some  home  mother 
same  ez  I  did  —  an'  easier,  not  havin'  no 
prohibition.  You  would  n 't  chuckle  that 
away  ef  you  'd  been  there,  doctor.  It  was 
a  fine  audience  o'  people,  an'  a  lot  o'  good 
speakers. 

Yas,  the  chief  o-rater  she  was  a  single 
lady,  f'om  somewhere  down  East,  I 
should  jedge.  I  s'picioned  her  singularity 
soon  ez  I  see  her  walk  in,  an'  I  'lowed 
she  was  the  paid  one,  too,  which  she 
was. 

How  'd  I  tell?  Well,  I  don't  claim  thet 
I  did  tell  exac'ly.  She  was  that  tall,  slim 
one  thet  put  up  at  the  hotel  —  the  one  with 
short  hair  an*  a  certainty  in  her  walk.  I 


"  The    Chief   0-rater." 


THE   WOMEN  63 

don't  know  ez  that  's  much  description,  but 
it  's  the  way  she  struck  me. 

You  know  they  's  short  hair  from  fevers 
an'  short  hair  from  principle.  You  'd  sup- 
pose they  'd  look  about  the  same,  but  they 
don't.  I  know  which  is  which  in  a  minute. 
Now,  they  was  somethin'  in  the  cut  of  this 
one's  head  thet  seemed  to  announce  thet 
she  'd  burnt  the  bridges  behind  her  —  even 
in  the  front  view. 

But  I  'm  sech  a  Miss  Nancy  thet  ef  I 
knowed  a  woman  didn't  have  no  knot  o' 
hair  on  the  back  of  her  head,  I  'd  miss  it, 
even  in  a  full-face  picture.  Thank  God, 
none  of  our  women  ain't  took  to  the  scis- 
sors, so  far,  though  they  do  say  sev'al  of 
'em  went  home  from  the  meetin'  an' 
th'owed  away  their  gum-tragic  bottles.  I 
doubt  ef  they  th'owed  'em  so  far  into  the 
shrubbery,  though,  thet  they  can't  find  'em 
befo'  the  nex'  sociable.  I  hope  not.  I 
alms  like  to  see  young  girls  tricked  out  a 
little  keerful.  It  speaks  well  for  the  young 
men  of  a  place  —  shows  they  're  popular. 

Well,  ez  I  was  sayin',  this  short-haired 
one  she  come  in  with  that  slab-sided  one 
with  the  big  plaid  basque  on.  Somehow 
it  's  been  my  lot  in  life,  doctor,  to  see 


64  SONNY  S  FATHER 

women  o'  her  figger  wear  hit-an'-miss 
plaids.  She  was  tagged  consider 'ble,  an' 
she  had  a  woolen  bird  on  her  bonnet. 

They  say  she  spoke  fine  down  at  Cedar 
Cliffs  on  the  destruction  of  birds,  an'  she 
gives  lessons  in  worsted  birdmakin'.  She 
'lows,  so  they  tell  me,  thet  she  don't  wear 
that  parrot  —  why  no,  I  ain't  shore  it  's  a 
parrot,  I  on'y  jedge  by  its  color  —  she 
'lows  she  don't  wear  it  because  she  feels 
the  necessity  of  wearin'  a  bird  on  her  head, 
but  thess  to  show  the  weak  breth  —  sistren, 
I  should  say  —  thet,  ef  a  bird  is  a  neces- 
sity, it  can  be  had  without  sin  —  fifty  cents 
a  lesson,  worsteds  th'owed  in. 

She  says  thet  even  ef  the  sheep  was  to 
be  shorn  out  o'  season,  they  have  promise 
in  Scripture  of  *  *  tempered  winds, ' '  a  quo- 
tation not  found  in  my  Bible,  so  she  ricom- 
mends  wool-work  without  let  or  hindrance. 

No,  she  didn't  speak  las'  night.  She 
only  come  along  to  survey  the  landscape 
o'er,  an'  see  ef  she  could  git  scholars.  She 
give  a  few  samples  of  bird-songs  an'  mate- 
callin's  whilst  the  mother  speaker  took  a 
recess,  an*  I  tell  you  she  was  n't  bad  music, 
neither. 

I  s'pose  'tis  a  sin,  the  way  the  men  go 


THE   WOMEN  65 

out  an'  slay  birds  by  the  thousands,  an' 
remove  all  the  marks  of  death  from  'em, 
an '  offer  'em  for  sale  —  glass-eyed  an ' 
happy-lookin'.  Of  co'se  'most  any  woman 
would  buy  a  thing  like  that,  an'  not  give  it 
a  second  thought,  though  /  doubt  ef  you 
could  find  one  engaged  in  the  business. 

Yas,  I  know,  it  's  a  cruel  sex  you  an'  me 
belong  to,  doctor.  Even  the  most  conscien- 
tious of  us  '11  feel  virtuous  in  killin'  a  bird, 
thess  so  it  's  e't,  even  ef  whoever  eats  it  is 
already  surfeited. 

They  tell  me  thet  at  great  ban-quets, 
where  they  have  things  strung  out  in 
cou'ses,  they  never  pass  the  birds  aroun' 
tell  everybody  's  chuck-full.  That  looks  to 
me  sarcastic,  but  of  co'se  it  may  not  be 
true.  Ef  every  one  thet  had  already  e't 
enough  could  thess  blow  on  the  superfluous 
bird  an'  sen'  it  back  to  life,  they  'd  be  some 
sense  in  it. 

But  talkin'  about  the  mothers'  meetin' — 
where  'd  I. leave  off,  doctor?  Oh,  yas,  I 
was  sayin'  the  speaker  was  a  singular 
number.  Well,  an*  that  ain't  all,  neither. 
She  was  raised  in  a'  orphan  asylum,  so 
they  tell  me,  an'  she  ain't  never  had  no 
dealin's  with  mothers,  'ceptin',  of  co'se, 


66  SONNY  S   FATHER 

the  visitin'  mothers  thet  come  once-t  a 
week  an'  fill  the  fatherless  youngsters  up 
with  candy  an'  trash  enough  to  keep  'em 
puny  tell  next  visitin '-day. 

Of  co'se  I  can  see  she  might  have  an 
advantage  in  that,  in  some  ways.  It  's  give 
her  a  chance  to  study  the  subjec'  from  the 
outside.  That  's  the  side  most  critics 
has  —  the  outside  is. 

Her  chief  objection  to  mothers  seemed 
to  be  their  partiality.  Sir?  Why,  their 
partiality  for  their  own  child 'en,  of  co'se. 
She  had  a  heap  to  say  about  "  universal 
motherhood  ";  that  's  a  grand  soundin' 
term,  "  universal  motherhood  "  is,  an',  for 
o-ratin',  it  was  the  finest  part  of  her 
discou'se,  although  I  didn't  quite  git  the 
hang  of  it  somehow  —  not  clair.  Yas,  their 
partiality  seemed  to  be  her  principal  ob- 
jection to  mothers  —  that  an'  their  bigotry 
over  old  maids. 

But,  takin'  it  from  first  to  last,  I  should 
say  she  did  n't  have  much  use  for  mothers, 
noways  —  that  is,  not  for  the  common  run. 
Why,  she  did  n't  hesitate  to  say  thet  ef  she 
was  'sponsible  for  a  population  she  'd 
rather  raise  it  on  the  incubator  plan,  ef 
possible,  than  to  trust  it  to  the  gen'al  run 


THE   WOMEN  67 

o'  mothers.  But  I  reckon  she  was  inclined 
to  be  sarcastic  in  that.  Sir?  Oh,  cert'n'y, 
they  was  other  speakers,  but  she  was  the 
only  paid  one. 

She  was  fully  primed  with  all  sorts  o' 
testimony  ag'iri'  mothers.  Why,  Doc',  she 
had  a  whole  set  o'  baby-clo'es,  all  heavy 
with  ruffles  an'  lace,  an'  she  exhibited  'em 
one  by  one,  displayin'  their  faults,  with  the 
treachery  of  safety-pins  an'  all  sech. 

Then  she  showed  fo'th  the  injurious 
motion  of  a  cradle  —  how  it  was  shore  to 
addle  a  young  brain  mo'  or  less.  But  the 
damagin'  shock  of  a  knee-jostle  was  her 
favor-ite  cruelty.  Why,  she  claims  thet 
half  the  child 'en  have  their  constitutions 
jolted  out  of  'em  befo'  they  cut  their  eye- 
teeth  —  all  on  their  mothers '  knees. 

Sir?  Oh,  she  proved  it  —  that  is,  she 
showed  it  fo'th  —  with  a  doll.  She  had 
one  o'  these  with  internal  machinery  an' 
vocal  powers,  an'  she  coddled  it  up  an' 
kissed  the  supposed  breath  clean  out  of  it, 
for  all  the  world  like  you  an'  I  Ve  seen 
Sally  Ann  do  hers,  joltin'  it  all  the  while. 
An'  then  she  opened  it  up  an'  showed  us 
the  condition  of  its  internals  —  every  vital 
either  sprung  or  fractioned. 


68  SONNY S   FATHER 

She  'lows  she  breaks  up  a  ten-dollar  doll 
every  lecture,  an'  she  considers  it  well 
broke  ef  it  saves  even  one  million-dollar 
baby.  She  says  babies  is  dressed  like  ez 
ef  they  was  millionaires,  an'  then  treated 
same  's  ef  they  was  three-for-a-quarter. 
You  see  they  was  times  when  it  was  neces- 
sary for  her  to  git  up  a  laugh. 

Of  co'se  this  is  on'y  a  little  scrap  o'  the 
lecture.  She  started  with  a  child  from  the 
beginnin'  —  or  befo'  the  beginnin',  for  that 
matter,  goin'  back  the  requi'ed  time  for  all 
purposes.  She  seemed  to  know  all  about 
that.  I  s'pose  likely  she  's  read  up  on  the 
subjec'. 

An'  she  said  one  thing  thet  surprised  me, 
doctor.  She  said  thet  the  divinely  intended 
chastisement  was  a  spank.  Of  co'se  this 
brought  down  the  house  for  a  few  minutes. 
An'  she  ricommends  a  felt  slipper,  to  be 
applied  after  a  half  to  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  of  meditation  an'  prayer,  accordin'  to 
how  hot-tempered  the  mother  is.  What  's 
that  you  say?  Oh,  yas,  she  got  off  that 
joke,  —  a  little  joke  goes  a  long  way  on  the 
stage,  —  an'  it  shook  the  house  for  a  while. 
Of  co'se  it  's  true.  Any  slipper  would  be 
felt  in  the  circumstances. 


The  Mothers'  Meetiiu 


THE   WOMEN  69 

A  frivolous  word  that  away,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  an  argiment,  why,  it  frets  me. 
Somehow  I  seemed  to  see  the  little  one 
strugglin'  acrost  her  knee  whilst  she 
stopped  to  crack  a  joke  at  his  expense. 
That  was  the  time  I  made  up  my  mind,  for 
shore,  thet  she  was  n't  no  mother. 

Some  mothers  '11  do  'most  anything 
when  their  dander  's  up  an'  they  momen- 
tarily forgit  the  helplessness  o'  the  little 
one,  but  they  'd  hardly  enjoy  a  scene  like 
that  in  cold  blood;  so  I  was  confirmed  in 
my  mind  ez  to  her  singularity  from  that 
minute. 

Like  ez  not  she  was  intended  for  a  lec- 
turer. I  Ve  allus  thought  preachin'  an' 
practisin'  was  two  sep'rate  trades,  an'  no 
one  person  ought  to  be  helt  too  strict  to 
both. 

I  tell  you,  she  said  some  good  things, 
doctor.  For  one  thing,  she  'lowed  thet  the 
chastisement  a  mother  administers  for  a 
misdemeanor  is  nine  time  out  o'  ten  mo'  a 
question  o'  the  woman's  temper  'n  what  it 
is  o'  the  child's  fault;  which  we  all  know 
to  be  true. 

Why,  you  an'  I  've  known  Sally  Ann 
Brooks  to  box  a  child  for  spillin'  syrrup  on 


70  SONNY S   FATHER 

its  frock,  an'  when  it  prevaricated  direc' 
in  other  things,  why,  she  'd  thess  dismiss 
it  with  a  religious  maxim  'way  over  its 
head. 

Somehow  the  lady  seemed  to  me  to  be 
whackin'  away  at  Sally  Ann  about  half  her 
time,  an'  I  'd  find  myself  leanin'  over  to 
see  how  she  took  it;  but  she  allus  seemed 
to  be  all  of  a  giggle,  cranin'  her  neck  to 
watch  some  other  quarter. 

You  know  she  's  a  turrible  gamemaker, 
Sally  Ann  is,  an'  they  's  no  thin'  she  enjoys 
so  much  ez  another  person's  expense. 

Yas,  the  speaker  she  said  a  lot  o'  good 
things.  They  wasn't  but  one  blame  she 
put  on  mothers,  though,  thet  seemed  to  fit 
our  little  Mary  'Lizabeth,  an'  I  fetched  it 
home  to  her  intac'.  She  flared  up  a  little 
over  it  at  first,  but  she  took  it,  all  the  same, 
an'  I  ca'culate  it  '11  make  some  difference 
to  her. 

It  was  on  the  mistake  of  teachin'  child 'en 
too  much  an'  tryin'  to  raise  'em  too  exact, 
on  a  set  pattern.  She  's  consider 'ble  in- 
clined that  away,  Mary  'Lizabeth  is,  an '  all 
the  child 'en  seem  to  fall  into  line  excep' 
little  Marthy,  the  one  I  call  mine.  She 
seldom  surrenders  without  a  battle,  that  is, 


THE   WOMEN  71 

I  mean  where  she  's  got  her  own  notions, 
an'  she  gen 'ally  seems  to  know  thess  where 
she  's  o-headin'  for,  an'  I  want  to  have  her 
let  alone  ez  much  ez  possible. 

Of  co'se  her  mother  she  's  for  makin'  a 
lady  of  her  fo'thwith,  an'  I  keep  a-tellin' 
her  it  can't  be  did  by  no  short  cut.  She  '11 
git  there  all  the  same,  but  she  's  boun'  to 
work  out  her  own  route. 

She  's  one  o'  these  mischievious,  imag- 
inative child 'en,  an'  sometimes  I  call  her 
an'  git  her  to  settle  down,  an'  I  reason  with 
her  a  little,  an'  she  never  fails  to  come 
around  all  right. 

She  's  a  tur'ble  little  mimic,  for  one 
thing,  for  a  child  of  eight  year.  Why,  she 
can  take  off  anything  or  anybody  she  's 
once-t  see,  tell  you  'd  imagine  it  was  befo' 
yo'  eyes. 

Ef  you  don't  mind  me  tellin'  you,  doctor, 
that  little  midgit  can  take  you  off  from  the 
time  you  hitch  up  at  the  front  gate,  all  the 
way  up  the  gravel,  hunchin'  her  lef '  shoul- 
der up  so  's  I  seem  to  see  yo '  medicine-case 
under  yo'  arm. 

She  can  do  that,  an'  then  come  an'  set 
down  befo'  me  an'  tell  me  to  poke  out  my 
tongue,  in  a  voice  I  'm  all  but  boun'  to 


72  SONNY'S  FATHER 

obey.  You  see,  I  've  barkened  to  tbem 
words  from  you  for  so  long. 

Sbe  took  off  Brother  Binney,  the 
preacher,  the  other  day,  baptizin'  .a  doll, 
an'  when  she  come  out  with  the  words. 
Dicey  seemed  to  think  she  might  be  struck 
by  lightnin'  for  saterlege.  But  I  wasn't 
noways  afeard. 

I  never  did  believe  thet  God  eaves- 
dropped on  little  child 'en  at  their  plays 
much.  He  'd  git  hisself  disliked  by  me  ef 
he  did,  an'  I  knew  it. 

Sir?  Oh,  yas,  Anna  Wallace  was  there 
with  her  baby.  No  comprehensive  child  'en 
was  allowed;  but  hers  was  so  young  they 
did  n't  take  no  notice  to  it.  I  spoke  to  her 
comin'  in,  an'  she  said  she  was  'most 
afeard  it  'd  take  its  death  in  the  damp 
night  air,  but  she  was  boun*  to  come  an' 
take  lessons  in  how  to  raise  it,  ef  it 
lived. 

What 's  that,  doc?  You  say  she  called 
you  in  to  see  it  befo'  day  this  mornin'? 
Well,  I  'm  not  surprised.  Croup,  eh! 
Thess  ez  I  thought.  It  coughed  pretty 
metalic  every  now  an*  ag'in  all  the  evenin'. 
Well,  she  was  bent  on  attendin'  the  moth- 
ers' meetin'  in  character,  an'  she  done  it. 


THE  WOMEN  73 

She  allus  was  skittish,  Anna  was.  Got  it 
honest  from  her  ol'  daddy,  Obadiah  Em- 
mett.  He  wrote  po'try  in  odd  hours,  you 
ricollec',  an'  lost  his  farm  by  sheriff  sale. 
His  idee  o'  gittin'  out  o'  debt  was  allus 
some  scheme  thet  requi'ed  mo'  cash,  an' 
he  'd  borry  it  with  glee  an'  certainty. 

It  's  thess  about  nachel  to  expect  thet  his 
daughter  might  be  the  sort  o'  woman 
thet  'd  all  but  kill  a  child  experimentin' 
how  to  raise  it.  Things  like  that  runs  in 
the  blood.  Smart  woman,  though,  Anna  is. 
I  '11  never  forgit  her  valedictory. 

But,  ez  you  say,  doctor,  I  never  did  ex- 
pec'  to  see  the  day  thet  's  arrived  —  when 
the  women  would  rise  up  in  insurrection 
the  way  they  're  doin'. 

Sir?  Well,  I  don't  know  why  not  use 
that  word.  They  talk  about  emancipation. 
Looks  like  they  must  'a'  felt  in  bondage  to 
use  a  slave-term  like  that. 

Sir?  Oh,  I  'm  for  lettin'  'em  have  their 
way,  doctor.  I  b'lieve  in  lettin'  everybody 
have  their  way  —  lessen  it 's  pernicious. 
Of  co'se  every  woman  or  every  individ- 
yal  man  can't  have  theirs,  but  I  'd  give  in 
to  the  bulk  of  'em  every  time. 

I   don't   mind,   thess    so   no   partic'lar 


74  SONNY  S   FATHER 

woman  don't  insurrect  ag'in'  her  partic'lar 
man.  That  allus  makes  trouble.  But  so 
long  ez  it 's  general,  an'  the  husbands  is 
standin'  off  winkin'  at  each  other,  why,  it 
only  enlivens  things  up  a  little. 

Of  co'se  a  consider 'ble  part  o'  the  agita- 
tors is  insubordinatin'  ag'in'  imaginary 
husbands,  which  make  it  all  the  mo'  harm- 
less. 

What  's  that  you  say,  doc?  Did  I  go  to 
the  sufferage  meetin'  down  at  Cypress 
Swamp?  Didn't  I,  though?  You  forgit, 
doctor.  Of  co  'se  I  went,  an '  it  opened  my 
eyes,  both  upper  an'  lower  leds.  I  seemed 
to  see  the  foundation-stone  an'  the  cupalo 
o'  the  whole  business  that  night. 

"  A  Dozen  Proofs  of  Woman's  Superi- 
ority ' '  —  yas,  that  was  the  title  o '  that 
lecture.  That  's  what  took  me  twenty 
mile  —  the  title  of  it.  Not  thet  I  would  n  't 
yield  the  blessed  creatures  a  thousand  su- 
periorities, but  I  was  curious  to  hear  what 
particular  dozen  they  'd  lay  claim  to  —  in 
public.  The  argiment  was  purty  much  like 
any  man  lawyer 's,  far  ez  I  could  jedge  - 
mos'ly  spent  in  abusin'  the  opposite 
side. 

She  seemed  to  prove  thess  about  every- 


THE   WOMEN  75 

thing  ag'in'  us  thet  could  be  proved  ez  she 
stood  there  brandishin'  a  fan. 

Tell  the  truth,  I  felt  too  vile  to  live  bef o ' 
she  had  done  with  the  third  superiority,  an' 
I  'd  'a'  slipped  out,  only  I  didn't  like  to. 
It  might  'a'  looked  like  a  confession,  an' 
I  like  my  closet  for  that. 

Befo'  I  got  to  where  my  closet  was, 
though,  I  seemed  to  git  over  my  remorse, 
mainly.  It  was  mo'  on  account  o'  my  sex 
in  gen'al,  anyhow,  thet  I  felt  guilty  —  the 
way  she  exposed  it. 

When  I  cooled  off,  though,  I  see  a  heap 
of  it  was  thess  smoke.  Somehow,  when  I 
hear  a  woman  talk  that  away,  I  wonder 
how  she  disposes  of  her  father.  She  's 
bound  to  've  had  one,  an'  the  Scriptures 
they  mention  him  along  with  the  mother  ez 
entitled  to  honor  —  in  the  fifth  command- 
ment. 

Yas,  that  's  true ;  it  does  mention  him 
first,  but,  like  ez  not,  that  was  on  account 
o'  not  havin'  no  woman  mixed  up  in  the 
framin'  of  it.  I  can't  imagine  thet  either 
(rod  or  Moses  intended  any  slight  to 
women  in  that. 

Sir?  No,  I  'm  not  doubtful,  doctor;  I  'm 
only  forgitful,  that  's  all.  No,  I  don't  know 


76  SONNY  S   FATHER 

ez  Mary  'Lizabeth  ever  werried  over  sech 
things.  She  's  been  purty  well  grounded. 
She  's  quick-witted  enough  to  git  into 
trouble,  but  she  's  too  busy.  But  she  's 
gen 'ally  one  o'  the  first  to  see  an  advan- 
tage. She  can  see  the  value  of  a  thing  even 
through  a  shock,  an'  that  's  sayin'  a  good 
deal. 

F '  instance,  her  bicycle  was  the  first  ever 
rid  down  the  Simpkinsville  road.  Ricollec' 
how  it  startled  ole  nigger  Proph  so  thet  he 
fell  on  his  knees  an'  commenced  to  proph- 
esy when  he  seen  her?  I  can't  say  I  liked 
to  see  her  straddle  it  at  first,  but  she  never 
s'picioned  it.  She  stays  purty  close-t  at 
home,  an'  I  saw  exercise  an'  open  air  in  it. 

Besides,  we  'd  see  by  the  papers  how 
women  was  takin'  to  the  road  in  New 
York,  an',  tell  the  truth,  I  knowed  the 
would-ef-you-could  set  o'  women  would  all 
respect  her  still  more  for  leadin'  off. 
Otherwise  I  might  'a'  been  tempted  to  let 
her  see  me  wince. 

We  Ve  all  got  our  weaknesses,  an*  I 
don't  claim  to  be  free  from  my  share.  But 
I  would  'a'  hated  to  see  her  hooted  at. 

'Stid  o'  that,  she  set  the  fashion,  an'  mo' 
butter-an'-egg  money  has  gone  into  the 


ffl  1 11 

-'•"•'      '  '    •'••*   •-'- --**^-;~.    ~— •'  •'. 


Her  bicycle  was  the  first  ever  rid  down  the  Simpkiusville  road." 


THE    WOMEN  77 

bicycle-shops  than  to  the  heathen  from  this 
county  from  that  tune  on,  I  'm  proud  to 
say.  Yas,  I  said  proud,  doctor.  I  like  the 
heathen,  but  I  like  our  own  folks,  too. 

But  even  ef  I  'd  been  reluctant  to  see  her 
mount  it,  the  way  she  rid  would  'a'  con- 
soled me.  Seem  like  she  an'  it  was  one 
from  the  time  she  got  her  first  balance,  an' 
that  's  where  I  draw  the  line  yet.  Any 
woman  thet,  after  due  practice,  don't  seem 
all  of  a  piece  with  it  ain't  got  no  business 
on  no  wheel  —  that  is,  not  for  appearance. 
Mary  'Lizabeth  she  skirts  an'  skims  for  all 
the  world  like  a  chimbly-swaller,  on'y  mo' 
graceful. 

No,  ez  I  said,  Mary  'Lizabeth  don't  think 
promiskyous,  but  she  thinks  to  the  p'int. 
I  know  when  she  heerd  all  the  talk  about 
female  suffer  age,  an'  so  many  was  arguin' 
ag'in'  it,  claimin'  thet  all  the  lowest-down 
women  would  likely  vote,  whilst  a  heap  o' 
the  best  wouldn't,  —  same  ez  the  men 
does,  —  why,  she  did  n't  seem  to  be  .payin' 
no  p'tic'lar  attention,  an'  d'rec'ly,  when 
they  was  a  minute's  silence,  what  did  she 
do  but  up  an'  remark:  "  Why  not  thess  let 
the  best  o'  the  women  vote?  Then  them 
an'  the  men  together  might  vote  out  the  bad 


78  SONNY  S   FATHER 

men,  looks  to  me  like,  an' 

Thess  that  away  she  said  it,  whilst  she  was 

passin'  the  custard-glasses. 

Sir?  Oh,  by  good  an'  bad  she  thess 
meant  the  classes  thet  ought  an'  oughtn't 
to,  that  's  all  —  them  thet  kin  read,  f  in- 
stance, or  thet  has  property,  or  thet 's 
been  here  long  enough  to  have  a  say-so, 
or  whatever.  Seems  to  me,  yet,  thet  that 
was  a  purty  straight  idee  —  for  Mary 
'Lizabeth's  size.  Oh,  yas,  she  figgered  it 
out  herself.  An'  I  think  maybe  she  's 
right. 

The  most  fittin'  of  both  sexes  ought  to 
rule  the  roost  better 'n  the  good  an'  bad  of 
either  one,  seems  to  me. 

Sir?  Oh,  I  don't  say  you  could  stop 
them  thet  has  a 'ready  voted  —  maybe 
not;  but  they  might  vote  ag'in'  any  mo' 
ignoramuses  comin'  in.  I  don't  know 
nothin'  't  all  about  it.  Don't  quiz  me, 
doctor. 

All  I  know  is  thet  I  '11  be  toted  out  to  the 
polls,  ef  necessary,  an'  I  '11  drop  in  my  bal- 
lot every  time,  an'  so  will  Sonny.  We  '11 
speak  out  an'  declare  our  principles.  An' 
ef  it  ever  was  to  come  to  us  havin'  to  vote 
ez  to  who  was  to  be  qualified  to  vote,  I  'm 


THE    WOMEN  79 

af eard  thet  the  sex  o '  the  applicants  would 
be  the  last  thing  I  'd  stop  to  consider. 

Ez  between  Fitty  Joe  and  Mary  'Liza- 
beth,  f '  instance,  why,  I  'd  discriminate  in 
favor  o'  common  sense  an'  goodness  every 
time,  ez  you  ricollec '  I  said  to  you  the  other 
day. 

Didn't  it  never  strike  you,  doctor,  thet 
in  a  question  like  that  maybe  the  women 
has  some  say,  whether  they  wanted  it  or 
not? 

Of  co'se  they  could,  anyhow,  ef  they  'd 
a  mind  to.  An'  come  to  think  of  it,  every 
woman  is  half  father  an'  every  man  is  half 
mother,  more  or  less,  an'  thess  because  one 
sex  declares  in  favor  o'  one  parent  an'  the 
other  in  favor  o'  the  other  — 

Truth  is,  I  git  mixed  thinkin'  about  it. 
But  my  b'lief  is  thet  them  duties  an'  re- 
strictions thet  hinges  on  sex  '11  continue 
to  hinge,  an'  them  thet  don't  '11  give 
way. 

Some  says  ef  women  vote  they  '11  haf  to 
fight,  but  I  can't  say  ez  I  see  that.  'T  ain't 
every  man  thet  's  built  for  battle.  Some  is 
constructed  for  poets,  an'  some,  ag'in,  ain't 
courageous  an'  can't  write  po'try,  neither. 

Sir?    You  say  am  I  a  woman 's-righter  1 


80  SONNY  S   FATHER 

God  knows  what  I  am,  doctor.  I  like  that 
name,  an'  I  'd  like  to  be  all  the  kinds  of  a 
righter  thet  it  comes  in  my  way  to  be,  an' 
a  wronger  of  no  man. 

That  name  seems  to  've  stood  a  long 
time  —  to  be  fixed  in  the  sand.  I  ricollec' 
when  it  first  come  how  we  all  hated  it.  I 
was  a  young  man  then,  an'  ef  my  wife  had 
'a'  mentioned  sech  a  thing  ez  go  in'  ez  a 
delegate  anywheres,  I  'd  'a '  looked  for  her 
to  grow  a  beard  nex'  thing,  an'  I  'd  'a'  kep' 
'er  hid. 

But  settin'  still  in  a  back  seat  an'  lis- 
tenin'  an'  lookin'  on  all  these  years,  why, 
let  any  doubter  try  it  an'  see  ef  it  don't 
change  his  views  —  that  is,  ef  he  sets  still 
enough,  an'  listens  to  both  sides. 

He  may  believe  the  way  he  b'lieved 
when  he  set  down,  but  ef  he  does,  he  '11 
know  the  reason  why,  an'  have  some  re- 
spect for  his  opponents,  too. 

Yas,  I  've  lived  to  see  a  woman  delegate 
rigged  out  in  a  dress  made  by  a  man  dress- 
maker; an'  he  voted,  an'  she  didn't.  An' 
maybe  it's  right  she  shouldn't.  I'm 
shore  I  don't  know. 

I  ain't  never  been  able  to  see  anything 
appetizin'  in  the  picture  o'  woman  at  the 


THE   WOMEN  81 

polls.  But  appetite  ain't  principle,  of 
co'se. 

Do  you  know  what  I  sometimes  think, 
doctor,  when  I  thess  look  on  an'  consider? 
Why,  I  think  of  what  the  Bible  says :  "  An' 
a  little  child  shall  lead  them."  Of  co'se  I 
know  I  'm  movin'  it  out  o'  place  a  little, 
but  I  can  fit  it  into  things  an'  see  how  it  's 
true  in  all  this  hubbub.  I  believe  thet  little 
child 'en  are  the  great  leaders  an'  bind- 
ers —  or  they  're  the  binders,  anyhow. 

Why,  I  know  a  man  thet  's  so  flighty  thet 
the  next  woman  '11  turn  his  head  every 
time,  an'  he  loses  hisself  so  complete  thet 
not  even  the  motherliness  of  the  mother  of 
his  child 'en  '11  hold  'im.  He  turns  fool 
every  year  or  two,  an'  the  little  home- 
mother,  why,  she  thess  keeps  eyes  an'  ears 
shet  tell  he  gits  the  better  of  it,  an'  the  call 
o'  the  child 'en  brings  him  back  ag'in. 

Of  co'se  he  allus  keeps  the  home  sup- 
plied with  marketin'  —  marketin'  an'  lies 
an'  —  Sir?  Oh,  this  ain't  no  fairy-tale.  I 
know  the  man.  No,  he  don't  live  here.  He 
couldn't.  I  'd  thrash  him  out  myself,  al- 
though I  know  likely  he  can't  help  his 
nature.  Neither  can  a  snake.  That  's  why 
I  always  think,  "  Po'  thing!  "  when  I  kill 


82  SONNY'S  FATHER 

one.  But  I  kill  it  all  the  same  every 
time. 

Sir?  Oh,  cert'n'y.  Shore,  you  're  right 
about  that.  The  woman  might  be  better 
shet  of  him,  an'  ef  she  lived  here  she  would. 
But  that  ain  't  neither  here  nor  there.  This 
is  only  an  extreme  case  —  selected  to  p'int 
my  p'int. 

Yas,  they  's  long  stretches  o '  time  thet  I 
believe  thet  it  's  the  child 'en  in  this  world 
thet  's  the  great  power  —  not  the  men  or 
the  women,  but  the  child 'en. 

Why,  I  know  a  case  of  a  baby  rulin '  Wall 
street  in  New  York  for  a  whole  week 
once-t  —  fixed  the  price  o '  cotton  for  six 
days  an'  set  everything  on  a  different  basis 
for  the  entire  season.  They  was  seven  new 
houses  built  in  Simpkinsville  that  spring, 
more  'n  any  season  before  or  sence,  an'  it 
all  come  o'  that  baby. 

What 's  that?  "  Whose  was  it?  or 
where?  or  how  old  was  he?  "  Well,  never 
mind  about  that,  but  I  don't  mind  tellin' 
you  how  old  he  was.  He  was  n't  no  age  at 
the  time.  He  was  an  old  man's  first,  thess 
like  Sonny  was  to  me,  an'  he  had  been  daily 
expected  for  a  week,  an'  threatened  noi 
to  arrive  safe-t ;  an'  for  five  days  that 


THE   WOMEN  83 

set  in  his  back  parlor,  in  call  o'  the  doc- 
tors, an'  dictated  telegrams  entirely  dif- 
ferent to  what  he  would  'a'  telegraphed 
ef  he  'd  had  his  mind  free,  an'  these  tele- 
grams they  excited  distrust  on  one  side 
an'  courage  on  the  other,  an'  first  thing 
you  knew  the  old  man's  name  was  in 
all  the  papers  for  savin'  his  country  from 
ruin. 

You  see,  not  knowin'  thess  how  things 
was,  he  acted  cautious,  an'  when,  on  the 
sixth  day,  that  baby  arrived,  talk  about 
silver  spoons!  Why,  he  had  a  whole  set 
of  gold  ones  in  his  mouth,  he  was  that 
rich. 

You  see,  the  crisis  in  the  market,  why, 
it  passed  whilst  the  baby  hesitated. 

Yas,  he  's  the  man.  I  didn't  intend  to 
tell  you,  but  sence  you  know  —  You  see, 
he  's  nachelly  techy  about  the  circumstance 
hingin '  on  his  timidity  —  that  'long  with 
his  ticklish  fatherhood. 

Of  co'se  the  papers  they  all  give  him 
credit  for  jedgment,  dubbed  him  the  Napo- 
leon o'  the  cotton-market  an'  all  sech;  an', 
the  fact  is,  he  lost  his  head  complete,  an' 
thess  held  still,  waitin'  to  hear  that  baby 
cry. 


84  SONNY'S  FATHER 

An'  when  it  did  cry,  why,  the  newsboys 
was  callin'  out  his  name  'long  the  New 
York  streets,  so  they  say.  Of  co'se  they 
named  him  for  his  daddy.  01'  man  claired 
fo'  millions  for  his  firm  in  six  days,  so  the 
story  runs,  an'  ef  it  had  n't  'a'  been  for  the 
youngster,  he  'd  'a'  smashed  the  whole  con- 
cern. 

An'  yit  some  says  luck  is  a  sinful  word. 
An'  maybe  it  is. 

Of  co'se  I  knotv  where  my  faith  is. 
'T  least,  I  know  the  top  notch  where  it 
hangs;  but  the  betweens,  why,  they  often 
puzzle  me. 

Sir?  Sonny's  faith?  Oh,  I  don't  bother 
about  that.  Of  co'se  I  reelize  he  's  half 
mother,  to  start  with,  an'  I  know  he  be- 
lieves in  God  an'  Mary  'Lizabeth;  an' 
betwix'  that  an'  his  book-writin',  an'  fol- 
lerin'  the  little  ones  around,  why,  he  don't 
have  no  time  to  reason  out  doubts.  I 
never  had  time,  neither,  tell  I  was  too  old 
to  enjoy  'em. 

They  do  say,  when  folks  spends  too 
much  time  studyin'  over  things,  they  're 
ap'  to  git  their  religious  views  hind  side 
fo'most,  an'  they  tell  me  some  has  writ 
whole  books  to  show  they  ain't  got  no  re- 


THE   WOMEN  85 

ligious  views  whatsoever.  Looks  to  me 
like  that  's  a  thing  a  person  could  declare 
in  a  minute  an'  be  done  with  it.  But  I 
know  I  'm  ignorant  of  some  things. 

But  talkin'  about  the  women  —  what  's 
that?  Yas,  that  's  true.  Sonny  does  claim 
to  be  a  sufferagette  —  in  principle.  He 
signed  with  Mary  Elizabeth  an'  she  signed 
first  time  the  paper  was  passed  'round  - 
not  thet  she  advocates  every  man  or  woman 
votin'--but  she  'lows  to  draw  the  line 
elsewhere. 

By  the  way,  it  strikes  me  I  hear  tumblers 
a-clinkin',  an'  I  s'picion  she  's  fixin'  you 
an'  me  a  sinful  drink  now —  't  least, 
mine  '11  be  sinful.  That  drop  out  o'  the 
bottle  she  puts  into  my  glass  o'  raspberry 
syrrup  has  swelled  from  a  teaspoon  to  a 
tablespoonful  in  two  year,  an'  you  ordered 
it  an'  never  called  my  attention  to  it. 

Of  co'se  I  reelize  a  person  has  to  len'then 
out  his  crutch  at  my  age,  an'  you  an'  Mary 
'Lizabeth  has  agreed  to  piece  mine  out 
on  the  sly.  But  I  'm  a  sort  of  e-ter-nal 
vigilanter,  doctor.  It  's  hard  to  keep  a 
thing  hid  from  me.  You  're  a  tender- 
hearted man,  an'  that  's  one  reason  I  like 
you  —  that  an'  yo'  style. 


86  SONNY'S  FATHER 

Thess  look  at  his  starched  cuff,  slick  ez 
a  bishop's.  It  tickles  me  to  see  you  sport 
white  linen  up  an'  down  this  dusty  road. 
Somehow  I  would  n  't  have  confidence  in  a 
doctor  thet  didn't  wear  a  starched  cuff. 
It  seems  to  go  in  with  his  di-plomy. 

A  starched  cuff  an'  Latin  diseases,  why, 
they  're  about  half  the  battle  for  a  doctor. 
I  obeyed  a  doctor  for  two  years  once-t, 
when  I  was  a  young  man,  thess  because  he 
treated  me  for  tic-douloureux ;  an'  one  day 
I  happened  to  be  runnin'  through  the  dic- 
tionary, an'  I  tripped  on  the  word,  an' 
found  't  was  n't  a  thing  but  common  neu- 
raligy,  an'  I  quit. 

You  know  neuraligy  it  's  different  to 
most  diseases.  You  either  have  it  or  you 
don't.  It  's  come  an'  gone  with  me  all  my 
life.  It  ain't  got  no  use  for  a  strong, 
man  with  a  healthy  appetite,  but  it  's 
worse  'n  a  vampire  once-t  it  gits  you  down ; 
so  I  Ve  kep'  shet  of  it  mostly. 

What?  You  ain't  goin',  doctor?  Well, 
ef  you  must,  thess  step  over  here  with  me 
to  the  end  o'  the  piazzy  an'  look  at  the 
child 'en  a  minute. 

Ain't  that  a  purty  sight,  now?  Do  you 
ricollec'  when  I  used  to  look  forrard  to 


THE  WOMEN  87 

the  time  when  they  'd  be  swings  in  the 
branches  o'  that  ol'  oak,  all  goin'  at  once-t, 
thess  like  you  see  'em? 

Well,  ez  I  set  an'  watch  'em  ez  the  days 
pass  so  joyously,  I  reelize  mo'  an'  mo'  thet 
I  'm  approachin'  the  time  when  I  '11  be 
nothin'  but  a'  ancestor,  an'  I  pray  God  to 
make  me  worthy.  I  tell  you,  doc,  it  's  a 
great  an'  awful  thing  to  be  inherited. 

Why,  sometimes,  when  that  nex'  to  the 
littlest  one  th'ows  hisself  down  in  a  tan- 
trum, I  'm  startled ;  it  brings  back  my  own 
youthful  tumults  so  vivid.  An'  then,  when 
treckly  he  gits  over  it,  an'  comes  with  his 
little  wet  face  for  me  to  kiss,  I  think  about 
my  ol'  mother,  an'  I  bless  the  Lord  thet  my 
ancestral  responsibilities  is  so  nobly  di- 
vided. Her  descendant  would  haf  to  be 
safe-t-guarded  with  sweetness,  even  ef  he 
was  skimped  in  his  ol'  gran 'daddy. 

How  purty  the  sun  is,  doctor,  where  it 
frosts  the  edges  o'  them  knotty  oak-limbs 
that  away,  an'  casts  rainbows  in  the  wet 
moss !  It  's  a  wonderful  world,  after  all, 
an'  I  trust,  when  I  pass  along,  it  won't  be 
shet  out  from  my  vision. 

Thess  look  at  little  Marthy,  now,  an' 
see  how  she  makes  the  boy  give  her  her 


88  SONNY  S   FATHER 

turn  at  the  swing,  an'  she  half  his  heft,  an' 
then  talk  about  women  gittin'  their  rights. 
They  '11  git  'em  when  they  're  ready,  don't 
you  werry. 

I  did  intend  to  put  up  a  swing  apiece  for 
'em,  an'  then  says  I:  "  No;  that  ain't  the 
way  o'  the  world.  Let  'em  learn  fair  play 
th'ough  turn  about,  same  ez  they  '11  haf  to 
later  on." 

Sir?  Oh,  they  's  only  one  swing  short, 
not  countin'  the  baby,  of  co'se.  They  's 
allus  ap'  to  be  one  receivin'  discipline ;  that 
is,  unless  his  greatest  pleasure  is  in  seein' 
others  swing,  an'  I  ain't  found  no  sech  an- 
gelic natures  among  'em  yit.  Ef  I  did,  I  'd 
feel  his  pulse  an'  sen'  for  you,  yo'  perfes- 
sion  bein'  keepin'  angels  out  o'  heaven  ez 
long  ez  possible.  Did  it  ever  strike  you 
thet  that  was  a  sort  o'  frustratin'  business, 
doc,  for  a  Christian  elder? 

But  ez  I  was  sayin',  talkin'  about  the 
women  —  I  was  werried,  some,  lessen  in  all 
this  tumult  they  might  git  mannish,  an' 
I  'd  be  the  last  one  to  like  that;  but  they 
tell  me  thet  they  's  thess  ez  many  organder- 
lawns  an*  furbelows  sold  in  the  States 
where  they  vote  ez  they  ever  was,  an'  no 
mo'  small-sized  pants. 


THE   WOMEN  89 

I  did  hear  thet  the  governor  of  some 
State  or  Territory  —  or  the  governess, 
maybe  I  should  say  —  was  inaugurated  in 
a  low-neck  frock,  but.  maybe  't  ain't  so? 
Anybody  kin  say  anything  ag'in'  anybody. 

My  taste  for  sech  an  occasion  would  be 
a  high-neck  basque,  an'  black  silk  for  the 
material  —  not  thet  I  'm  struck  on  the 
governess  idee  in  p'tic'lar,  but  thess 
s'posin'.  Ef  they  was  a  good  lady  here 
runnin'  ag'in'  a  bad  man,  why,  I  'd  vote 
for  her,  of  co'se.  Sir?  What  's  that  you 
say?  S'posin'  it  was  six  o'  one  an'  half  a 
dozen  o'  the  other?  Well,  in  that  case  I  'd 
compliment  the  fair  sex,  of  co'se.  That  's 
a  matter  o'  raisin'.  But--  Sir?  Ef  she 
was  reel  wicked? 

Oh,  shoo,  doc,  I  don't  know  ez  I  ever 
knowed  one  thet  was;  but  I  kin  imagine 
thet  she  might  be  skittish  or  hysterical  — 
they  're  the  kind  I  dread. 

One  o'  the  best  women  I  ever  met  gi'e 
me  the  fidgets  every  time  I  looked  at  her. 
She  was  both  wall-eyed  an'  skittish-man- 
nered, po'  thing.  I  allus  s'picioned  she 
tried  to  make  up  for  her  eyes  by  her  be- 
havior, which  was  a  great  mistake. 

She  was  the  salt  o'  the  earth,  an'  I  knew 


90  SONNY'S  FATHER 

it,  an '  yet,  ef  she  was  to  come  up  that  walk 
now,  I  'd  suddenly  ricollec'  some  errand  in 
the  kitchen,  an'  I  would  n't  be  able  to  help 
it. 

Of  co'se  I  'd  return  quick  ez  I  could 
brace  up,  but  back  I  'd  go  on  first  sight. 
Why,  doc,  you  wouldn't  b'lieve  it  of  me, 
maybe,  but  they  's  been  certain  hens  in 
the  yard  thet  would  gi'e  me  the  creeps, 
allus  actin'  so  agitated  an'  superfluous — - 
not  comparin',  of  co'se. 

There  's  Sally  Ann  Brooks,  now ;  I  hate 
to  say  it,  but  she  kin  git  me  about  ez  nettled 
ez  anybody  I  like.  What  's  that?  Why, 
cert'n'y  I  like  Sally  Ann.  Yas,  I  know  she 
will  whup  her  child 'en  constant  an'  dress 
'em  to  kill ;  but  she  's  one  of  our  own  girls, 
an'  she  means  well. 

You  know  she  wanted  to  be  'lected  dele- 
gate to  the  W.  C.  T.  U.,  on  account  o'  the 
stand  she  took  to  close  the  saloons ;  but  our 
women  is  got  too  much  sense  to  send  the 
mother  o'  two  sets  o'  child 'en  away  f'om 
home. 

Besides,  you  know  how  she  is.  Ez  Mis' 
Blanks  says,  ef  Sally  Ann  found  herself 
app  'inted  to  set  on  a  platform  bef 6 '  a '  au- 
dience o'  people,  like  ez  not  she  'd  be  for 


THE   WOMEN  91 

appearin'  with  her  white  ribbin  rosette 
sash-width,  or  some  other  conspicuosity, 
an'  I  don't  doubt  she  would.  She  's  the 
sort  thet  '11  second  a  motion  she  don't  hear. 
Anything  to  be  a-motionin'  or  a-secondin'. 

The  committee  on  delegations  is  goin'  to 
come  out  here  in  the  mornin'  an'  offer  it  to 
Mary  'Lizabeth;  but  of  co'se  she  won't 
consider  it.  It  's  mo'  of  a  compliment  to 
her  an'  Sonny  'n  anything  else,  I  reckon. 

I  feel  like  a  secret  society  or  a  dynamite 
bomb,  knowin'  it  an'  not  tellin'  'er,  but  I 
promised  I  wouldn't.  Sir?  How  did  I 
know  it?  Well,  never  mind;  I  was  told, 
that  's  all.  Somehow  folks  '11  tell  me  'most 
anything.  That  's  a  compliment  they  pay 
to  my  dumbness. 

You  nee 'n't  to  laugh,  doctor!  Th'  ain't 
nobody  can  play  around  a  stake  an'  never 
tech  it  better  'n  I  can.  They  're  the  best 
secret-keepers  thet  can  do  that.  Yas,  I  'm 
a  reg'lar  magazine  of  explosives,  an'  you 
ought  to  know  it  an'  never  let  a  fever  run 
too  high  in  my  system. 

Yas,  they  've  'lected  Miss  Sue  Sanderson 
delegate  to  the  mothers'  biennial,  an'  I 
think  they  've  done  mighty  well.  She  '11 
enjoy  the  trip,  an'  she  's  free-handed,  an' 


92  SONNY  S   FATHER 

she  's  a  good  talker,  an'  I  jedge  she  could 
build  up  an  imaginary  family  an '  raise  'em 
befo'  an  audience  o'  people  ez  slick  ez  the 
next  one. 

An'  I  tell  you,  doc,  these  meetin's 
all  help  along.  Of  co'se  Sally  Ann  '11 
allus  be  herself,  but  I  b'lieve  thet  after  las' 
night's  talk  even  she  '11  be  herself  with 
restrictions,  f'om  this  time  forrard.  I 
doubt  ef  she  '11  ever  box  one  o'  her  child 'en 
ag'in  —  not  in  public,  nohow. 

Mary  'Lizabeth  says  the  reason  they 
picked  Miss  Sue  Sanderson  for  a  delegate 
is  on  account  o'  she  bein'  a  Daughter  o'  the 
Revolution,  an'  she  '11  sort  o'  reflect  double 
credit  on  Simpkinsville.  What  's  that  you 
say,  doc?  Of  co'se  I  know  nobody  don't 
b  'lieve  she  's  one ;  not  but  what  she  might 
be,  for  all  I  know.  Anyhow,  we-all  know 
how  she  j'ined.  When  she  heerd  thet  the 
Sandersons  of  Sand  Hill  was  descended 
that  away,  why,  she  thess  up  an'  claimed 
it,  too,  an'  commenced  to  shorten  her  frock- 
waists  an'  to  buy  flowered  curtain  muslins 
for  her  dresses. 

It  's  good  she  's  ez  purty  ez  she  is.  It 
takes  consider 'ble  good  looks  to  carry  off 
that  Marthy  Washin'ton  git-up  in  broad 


THE   WOMEN  93 

daylight.  You  know  I  ain't  called  her 
no  thin'  but  "  Lady  Marthy  "  sence  she 
adopted  the  costume.  It  pleases  me  to  see 
her  wear  it,  because  it  seems  to  make  her  so 
happy,  an'  the  road  is  thess  one  picture 
purtier  with  her  walkin'  down  it  in  garret 
frocks  an'  white  kerchiefs. 

She  looks  ez  innocently  proud  an'  de- 
lighted ez  the  wild  roses  she  breshes  with 
her  skirts  by  the  roadside. 

To  my  mind,  some  women  is  so  much  like 
flowers  thet  for  'em  thess  to  bloom  seems 
all-sufficient.  When  a  girl  like  Miss  Sue 
wants  to  be  a  delegate  to  a  mothers'  con- 
vention, why,  it  's  like  a  lily  havin'  medic- 
inal qualities  —  an'  they  ain't  nothin' 
ag'in'  nature  in  that;  they  say  some 
has. 

Miss  Sue  says  her  only  regret  is  thet  the 
minuet  can't  be  danced  solitary.  She 
craves  to  dance  it,  but  she  says  they  ain't 
nobody  in  Simpkinsville  qualified  to  dance 
it  with  her. 

Oh,  yas,  she  said  that  to  Mary  'Liza- 
beth's  face,  an'  Mary  'Lizabeth  she  was 
turrible  tickled  over  it,  because  she  knows 
they  's  only  three  quarters  o'  my  great 
gran 'pa  buried  down  in  the  Fayetteville 


94  SONNY  8   FATHER 

cemetery,  the  rest  of  him  bein'  left  on  a 
Revolutionary  battlefield;  an'  Sonny  has 
got  his  swo'd  an'  crutch,  both,  an'  his  com- 
mission, too.  An'  she  's  got  one  on  her 
ma  's  side,  for  that  matter. 

Sir!  Oh,  no,  she  never  said  nothin'. 
I  did  pleg  Mary  'Lizabeth  a  little  to  send 
on  her  papers  an'  things  an'  git  a  badge, 
but  she  would  n  't.  She  'lowed  thet  it  was 
all  she  could  do  to  keep  up  with  her  duties 
ez  a  mother,  let  alone  settin '  up  to  be  a  new 
kind  of  a  daughter. 

But  I  Ve  got  all  the  dockiments  put  by, 
an'  ef  any  o'  these  little  girls  thet  's  comin' 
along  should  ever  care  to  take  advantage 
of  bein'  born  Daughters  of  History,  why, 
they  '11  find  their  title  clair. 

Little  Marthy  —  funny  for  her  name  to 
be  Marthy,  now,  ain't  it?  I  never  thought 
o'  her  an'  Marthy  Washin'ton  together 
bef o '  —  but  our  little  Marthy  is  a  born 
leader,  an'  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  none 
ef  she  'd  be  the  sort  thet  'd  some  day  enjoy 
puttin'  ribbin  bows  on  that  ol'  crutch  an' 
swo'd,  an'  crossin'  'em  over  her  mantel 
shelf. 

Ef  her  mind  should  run  that  away,  she 
won't  haf  to  go  to  no  junk-shop  to  git  her 


THE   WOMEN  95 

relics,  that  's  one  thing  shore.  They  say 
a  heap  of  'em  does. 

Sir?  Oh,  no,  Miss  Sue  ain't  got  no 
badge.  She  says  the  name  o'  Sanderson  is 
all  the  badge  she  needs,  an'  I  reckon  it 's 
thess  ez  well  she  feels  that  away. 

No,  it  's  thess  ez  I  said  in  the  beginnin', 
doctor;  they  ain't  no  'casion  to  fret  about 
our  women.  They  ain't  banded  ag'in'  the 
men  no  mo'  'n  the  men  has  been  banded 
ag'in'  them  all  these  years  in  their  Odd 
Feller  an'  Freemasonry  an'  all  sech. 

Of  co  'se  they  's  some  things  in  it  all  thet 
strikes  a  looker-on  ez  ridic'lous,  now  an' 
ag'in.  F'  instance,  it  plegs  me  to  see  our 
sweet  young  girls  goin'  roun'  with  what 
they  call  "  Social  Purity  badges  "  on. 

The  dear  child 'en  ain't  no  mo'  'n  purity 
badges  theirselves,  ef  they  on'y  knew  it, 
an'  I  hate  to  see  'em  labeled.  Seem  like  it 
might  make  'em  conscious. 

01'  Miss  'Tildy  Ferguson  is  responsible 
for  that.  She  was  born  plain-featured, 
Miss  'Tildy  was,  an'  she  's  had  a  purty 
lonesome  time  all  her  life,  with  her  eczema 
an'  her  deefness,  an'  when  she  started  to 
wear  the  badge,  why,  I  was  pleased  to  see 
it  —  an'  nobody  can't  say  but  what  she  's 


96  SONNY  S   FATHER 

lived  up  to  it  strict.  But  it  's  only  human 
not  to  know  when  to  stop. 

I  s'pose  they  come  a  time  when  her  own 
virtuous  life  ceased  to  satisfy  her  cravin' 
for  virtue,  an'  so  she  app'inted  meetings 
an'  got  the  girls  all  out  an'  tagged  'em,  an' 
it  seems  they  've  made  her  president,  an' 
she  says  it  has  renewed  her  youth  like  the 
eagle,  she  's  that  happy  over  it. 

I  reckon  the  truth  is,  everybody's  life  is 
bound  to  be  a  sermon,  of  one  sort  or  an- 
other, an'  the  happy  ones  is  them  thet  are 
convinced  thet  they  've  found  their  texts. 

Of  co'se  white  ribbins  an'  reelizations  of 
goodness  can't  hurt  our  girls  in  the  long 
run,  an'  ef  it  's  brought  happiness  into  the 
heart  of  one  lonely  ol '  woman,  that  's  some- 
thin'. 

No,  don't  let  's  you  an'  me  fret  over  our 
women,  doctor.  The  motters  on  all  their 
banners  is  thess  ez  good  for  our  sons  ez  for 
our  daughters,  an'  we  '11  all  do  mighty 
well  ef  we  try  to  live  up  to  'em. 


IV 

THE  SONG  IN  THE  TREE  -  TOPS 

iELL,  Doctor,  sence  it  's  another 
boy,  I  s'pose  I  '11  have  to  give 
in  to  the  name,  although,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  've  sort  o'  caught 
Sonny's  obnoxion  to  Deuteronomy  for  a 
Christian  title.  As  he  says,  it  's  too  sense- 
lessly biblical. 

An'  so  my  grandfatherly  advice  would 
be  ag'inst  it.  An'  yet,  we  've  shoved  it 
along  so  often,  an',  ez  you  say,  a  mother 
ought  to  have  some  say  in  namin'  the 
child 'en  she  brings  into  the  world,  an' 
nothin'  '11  do  Mary  Elizabeth  but  to  pass 
the  name  on  intact.  Pore  little  baby!  I 
declare,  you  could  put  his  whole  len'th  in 
that  name  an'  have  a  letter  or  two  left 
over.  Father  he  give  it  to  me  warm  out 
o'  the  Bible,  on  account  o'  him  bein'  con- 
verted th'ough  a  passage  in  it  —  thess 
befo'  my  arrival.  I  Ve  always  felt  thet  he 

07 


98  SONNY'S  FATHER 

must  'a '  been  on  the  eve  of  conversion  any- 
way. I  've  dutifully  tried  to  enjoy  the  book 
o'  Deuteronomy,  all  my  life;  but  the 
farthest  I  Ve  got  is  to  respect  it  as  a 
po  'tion  of  the  revealed  Word. 

I  've  often  wished  my  father  had  foun' 
grace  th'ough  one  o'  the  Christian  gospels, 
or,  if  not,  th'ough  Job  or  Jeremiah  —  or 
even  Proverbs.  I  had  a'  uncle,  mother's 
side,  thet  was  christened  Proverbs,  an'  he 
always  signed  John  P.  I  've  had  a  good 
many  legal  papers  to  sign,  buyin'  an' 
sellin'  land  an'  mules  an'  cotton,  an'  bein' 
ez  Deuteronomy  was  the  only  name  I  had, 
I  didn't  feel  free  to  initial  or  curtail  it; 
an'  it  ain't  never  failed  to  provoke  a  smile 
when  it  's  been  read  out  in  court. 

The  trouble  is,  in  passin'  it  down  to  this 
helpless  infant,  he  '11  likely  be  called  by  it, 
although  Mary  Elizabeth  has  a 'ready  got 
it  reduced  down  to  Duty,  which  she  'lows 
'11  be  a  watchword  an'  ought  to  suffice.  I 
never  felt  the  full  f o  'ce  o '  the  name  —  an ' 
neither  has  Sonny.  The  only  way  I  ever 
heard  it  in  full  blast  was  in  reproof,  an' 
I  'd  recognize  upbraision  in  it. 

He  was  a  good  man,  my  father  was,  an' 
his  usual  form  of  address  to  me  was  "  my 


THE   SONG   IN  THE   TREE-TOPS  99 

son,"  thess  so,  unadorned,  an'  I  don't 
know  but  it  's  helped  me  all  my  life.  It 
sort  o'  challenges  a  boy  to  be  called  "  my 
son  "  by  a  good  man. 

Ef  I  hadn't  'a'  been  on  in  years  when 
Sonny  come,  an'  tickled  out  of  all  reason, 
no  doubt  I  'd  'a'  follered  in  father's  lead, 
an'  started  in  callin'  him  "  my  son,"  al- 
though it  would  n't  never  'a'  filled  the  bill, 
exac'ly.  He  was  too  little  at  first,  an'  then 
too  mischievious,  an'  too  much  of  a  prize- 
package  for  a  steady  title  like  that,  an' 
"  Sonny,"  why  that  thess  seemed  to  hit 
it  off  right. 

An'  what  an  abidin'  an'sgrowin'  joy  he 
has  always  been  to  us,  Doc' !  An'  to  think 
of  him,  ez  I  see  him,  an'  can't  fully  realize 
'im  even  yet,  ez  the  prosperous  father  of 
a  large  family  —  well,  I  often  feel  ez 
full  o'  praise  over  it  all  ez  a  psalm  o' 
David. 

I  Ve  always  thought  thet  ef  I  had  my 
choice,  an'  my  life  could  express  worship, 
I  'd  choose  for  it  to  be  praise.  Prayer  is 
all  very  well,  but  half  the  time  when  I  start 
to  pray,  I  thess  reverse  the  injine,  an'  send 
up  a  message  of  thanksgivin'  instid;  an' 
I  'm  ap'  to  forgit  what  I  got  down  on  my 


100  SONNY S   FATHER 

marrer-bones  to  beg  for.  Not  thet  I  git 
down  that-a-way  literal  these  las'  days. 
But  my  sperit  loves  to  kneel  an*  give 
thanks. 

I  s'pose  they  '11  be  put  tin'  a  cupalo  on 
the  orphanage,  or  sendin'  some  boy  up  to 
the  agricultural  college,  ez  a  memorial  of 
thanksgivin'  for  the  gift  o'  the  little  Deu- 
teronomy. You  know  Sonny  an'  Mary 
Elizabeth  they  ain't  never  failed  to  make 
a  thank-off erin'  for  every  one  ez  they  Ve 
come. 

Sally  Ann  Carter  she  says  thet  she 
thinks  them  namin'  a  sixth  child  Dorothy 
thess  because  Dorothy  means  a  gift  o '  God 
was  nothin'  short  of  a  bluff.  She  's  a 
game-maker  yet,  with  all  her  troubles, 
Sally  Ann  is. 

Do  you  know  what  I  thought  about,  Doc- 
tor, when  I  see  the  new  baby  thess  now? 
Why,  it  reminded  me  of  the  littlest  one  of 
Sonny's  collections  of  birds'  eggs  an'  of 
a  talk  or  two  I  Ve  had  with  his  third  boy 
about  it,  last  few  days. 

An'  of  co'se  it  makes  me  think  of  her, 
Sonny's  mother,  the  new  baby  does  —  an' 
of  him  an'  the  birth-night.  You  Ve  been 
with  us  th'ough  most  of  our  heartrenderin' 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  101 

experiences,  Doc'.  Yas,  a  birth  in  the 
family  it  always  seems  to  give  me  a  fresh 
purchase  on  things,  an'  what  you  'd  call  a 
new  perspective,  I  reckon.  An'  of  co'se  at 
my  age  I  look  backwards.  It  depends  upon 
how  far  a  man  's  traveled  which  way  he  '11 
look.  He  's  ap '  to  look  the  longest  way  — 
an'  that  's  in  my  rear. 

Settin'  here  amongst  these  child 'en,  I 
reflect  on  everything,  from  my  boyhood, 
down.  I  even  think  over  an'  over  ag'in  of 
her,  —  the  first  time  I  ricollect  of  seein' 
'er,  —  an'  then  of  forever  afterwards. 
You  know,  sometimes  a  girl  '11  pass  under 
yo'  eyes  a  thousand  times  thess  casual,  an' 
be  same  ez  part  o'  the  landscape,  an' 
maybe,  some  ord'nary  day,  without  any 
brass  band  or  anything  excitin',  you  '11 
thess  suddenly  seem  to  see  her  —  an'  the 
jig  's  up  for  you. 

Well,  that  was  the  way  it  was  with  her. 
I  had  often  met  her,  comin'  an'  goin',  an' 
even  passed  the  time  o'  day  with  'er;  but 
beyond  thinkin'  she  was  neat-figured,  I 
was  n't  conscious  of  'er,  no  ways.  Plenty 
of  our  girls  is  nice  an'  compact-built. 

Well,  we  had  a  happy  life  together, 
mother  an'  me.  Somehow,  Doc,  I  've  taken 


102  SONNY S    FATHER 

to  missin'  'er  ag'in  lately,  an*  I  like  it. 
It  's  company  to  me,  missin'  'er  is.  When 
the  dead  are  clair  forgot,  they  cease  to  be 
company  to  us. 

But  talkin'  about  birds'  eggs,  you  know 
Sonny 's  third  boy,  yo '  namesake,  —  little 
Doc'  we  call  'im, — he  's  got  his  pa's  col- 
lection, along  with  the  gift,  an'  he  's  got 
consider 'ble  scientific  insight,  too,  so  Sonny 
says. 

They  's  been  one  or  two  rare  nests  found 
on  the  place  lately,  —  you  know  Sonny  has 
bought  in  all  the  woods  thet  was  left,  - 
an'  the  little  boy  has  got  holt  o'  one  or 
two  entirely  new  specimens.  He  robs  a 
nest  with  the  same  wire  seizure  thet  Sonny 
constructed  when  he  was  about  his  age.  It 
lifts  the  eggs  out  without  the  inhuman 
touck. 

Well,  he  come  in  with  this  egg  day  bef  o ' 
yesterday,  a  weeny  blue-white  thing  no 
bigger  'n  a  joke.  Had  it  layin'  in  a'  ole 
bird-nest  thet  he  keeps  for  the  purpose, 
befo'  he  classifies  an  egg  an'  puts  it  with 
the  collection. 

He  had  n't  put  finger  on  it.  He  always 
waits  a  while  an'  keeps  it  sacred,  an'  looks 
at  it;  an'  yet  he  ain't  chicken-hearted 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  103 

about  it.  He  collects  'em,  only  he  does  it 
with  respect. 

Well,  whilst  he  was  showin'  me  the  little 
thing,  I  helt  the  nest  in  my  hand  a  minute, 
an'  I  says,  says  I,  "  Son,"  says  I,  "  d'  y' 
ever  consider  what  's  in  a  little  thing  like 
this!  " 

He  's  a  mischievious  youngster,  an'  his 
eye  twinkled. 

"  In  it?  "  says  he,  "  Yaller  an'  white,  I 
reckon.  D'  y'  ever  think  what  a  cunnin' 
little  fry  one  would  make  —  with  a  slice  o ' 
guinea-pig  bacon?  " 

He  's  a  turrible  little  guy,  an'  smart  ez 
they  make  'em.  He  knowed  I  was  imbued 
with  some  sentimental  principles  about  the 
egg,  an'  he  'lowed  to  gimme  a  shock.  But 
I  never  let  on;  I  thess  laughed  an'  says: 

"  Why,  yas,  't  would  be  cunnin', 
would  n  't  it  ?  Or  a  little  omelet  would  be 
still  better,  ef  you  had  eggs  enough;  an' 
the  guinea-pig  bacon  could  be  cured  with 
smoke  from  a  Dutchman's  pipe  in  the 
woods,  or  maybe  puffball  smoke. ' ' 

I  always  try  to  come  out  ahead  in  a 
bluff  —  if  I  can. 

Well,  at  that  he  up  an'  hugs  me,  an'  says 
he: 


104  SONNY'S  FATHER 

' '  That  's  why  I  like  you,  Gramper : 
you  're  good  spo't."  An'  he  went  off 
whistlin';  but  I  see  he  handled  that  egg 
keerful,  all  the  same. 

I  don't  know  what  variety  it  was,  ex- 
ac'ly.  It  was  a  shade  longer  'n  our 
hummin '-bird's,  an'  freckled.  I  suppose 
I  'm  childish,  maybe,  —  or  maybe  it  's 
second-childish,  —  but  do  you  know  I  can 't 
set  an'  think  about  a  little  thing  like  a 
bird's  egg  an'  be  reconciled  to  infidelity. 
It  '11  take  my  mind  about  ez  far  afield  ez 
a  sermon  —  an'  sometimes  further. 

Well,  that  was  las'  Thursday.  I  knew 
I  hadn't  made  no  impression  on  the  boy, 
so  day  befo'  yesterday  he  was  settin'  all 
over  me  ag'inst  the  arm  o'  the  rustic  settee 
on  the  po'ch,  with  his  arm  roun'  my  neck 
to  keep  from  slippin'.  You  know  he  ain't 
but  thess  six,  —  an'  not  fully  that,  —  an' 
he  was  sort  o'  meanderin'  along  in  idle  talk 
when  he  says, 

"  Gramper,  tell  me  a  story." 

"  What  about?  "  says  I. 

"  About  anything  but  God,"  says  he; 
"  I  'm  tired  o' Him." 

Now,  I  know  thet  they  's  some  good 
people  thet  'd  take  exception  to  sech  talk 


THE   SONG  IN  THE  TREE-TOPS  105 

ez  that  from  a  five-year-old.  They  seem 
to  think  God  needs  to  have  His  dignity 
sustained  constant;  but  I  ain't  that 
make  —  come  to  child 'en.  I  'd  ruther  try 
to  win  'em  roun'  to  the  right  way  o' 
thinkin'*  It  's  hard  to  jolt  a  human  bein' 
into  reverence.  So  I  thess  laughed,  an' 
I  says: 

"  Is  that  so,  Son!  "  I  've  always  called 
all  the  grand-boys  ' '  son. ' '  It  seems  to  re- 
move the  one  remove  between  us.  So  I 
says: 

"  Is  that  so?  Tired  o'  God,  are  you? 
Well,  I  don't  reckon  He  minds  —  ef  you 
don't.  He  ain'  lonesome.  They  's  so 
many  thet  feel  different  —  thess  so  He 
don't  git  tired  o'  you." 

But  that  didn't  bring  'im  roun'  worth 
a  cent.  He  thess  went  on  casual: 

"  I  ain't  turnin'  'Im  down  altogether," 
says  he;  "  but  I  don't  want  to  hear  about 
Him  now.  Tell  me  a  week-day  story." 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  you  name  the  sub- 
jec',  an'  I  '11  keep  God  out  of  it  —  if  I  can. 
He  seems  to  be  in  'most  everything  befo' 
you  git  done  with  it;  but  I  '11  do  my  best 
to  keep  Him  out.  An'  thess  ez  I  said  that, 
a  hummin '-bird  happened  to  nutter  past 


106  SONNY S   FATHER 

our  faces,  makin'  for  the  Bermudy  vines 
on  the  po'ch,  an'  I  see  a  nest  in  the  crotch 
of  the  honeysuckles  thet  was  mingled  with 
it,  within  easy  reach  of  climbin'. 

"  How  about  that  nest  I  "  says  I.  I  see 
his  eyes  had  follered  mine.  "  Let  's 
see  ef  they  's  anything  in  it."  Every 
child  loves  a  bird-nest,  even  a'  ordinary 
child. 

So  he  stood  up  on  the  back  rail  o'  the 
settee,  clutchin'  the  shoulder  of  my  coat, 
an'  peeked  into  the  nest.  Then  he  put  his 
little  finger  on  'is  lips  an'  held  up  two 
fingers. 

"  Yas,  I  thought  ez  much,"  says  I. 
"  Two  weeny  eggs,  like  little  white  beans. 
An'  the  nest  wove  out  o'  plant-down,  an' 
covered  with  lichens,  an'  located  so  thet 
you  might  be  lookin'  right  at  it  an'  not  see 
it.  Seem  like  that  must  'a'  been  inten- 
tional—  matchin'  a  nest  to  its  sur round- 
in 's." 

You  see,  I  Ve  learned  a  heap  from 
Sonny,  Doctor,  an'  I  spout  it  out  on  occa- 
sion. 

"  You  can't  git  one  o'  them  eggs  with- 
out robbery,"  says  I,  "  an'  you  Ve  got  a 
similar  specimen.  S'pose  you  come  down 


Located  so  thet  you  might  be  lookin'  right  at  it  an'  not 
see  it. 


THE   SONG  IN  THE  TREE-TOPS  107 

an'  run  git  one  o'  them  for  Gramper  —  an7 
let  's  see  what  it  looks  like." 

He  was  down  an'  back  with  the  egg  in 
a  minute. 

"  Now,"  says  I,  "  what  's  in  a  little  egg 
like  this  —  when  it  's  new-laid !  No  more 
yaller-an '-white  talk  now:  Gramper 's 
tellin'  this  story.  First  of  all,  they  's  life 
in  it  —  an'  the  power  to  stir  an'  come 
fo'th. 

"  A  perfec'  little  bird,  feathers  lappin' 
one  over  another,  the  bronzy  ones  an'  the 
green,  —  thess  the  same  on  each  side,  — 
all  distributed  accordin'  the  rule  of  thou- 
sands of  years  on  a  perfec'  little  body  con- 
structed for  flyin',  downy  breast-feathers, 
strong  quills  to  brace  ag'inst  the  wind- 
they  're  in  it. 

11  S'pose  we  study  over  the  contains  of 
an  egg,  Son,  besides  feathers  an'  bones, 
though  they  're  wonderful  enough.  How 
do  you  s'pose  they  reg'late  the  paints  so  's 
they  won't  git  mixed  in  a  little  bean-egg 
like  that?  You  'd  think  the  speck  o' 
bronze  thet  was  to  tip  the  shoulder  feath- 
ers might  git  mixed  with  the  green  for 
the  top-knot,  or  thet  the  breast-feathers 
would  slip  out  o'  place  an'  grow  out  on 


108  SONNY  S   FATHER 

the  back,  maybe,  an'  humiliate  the  little 
thing. 

"  But  they  's  other  things,  besides,  in 
the  egg,  Son.  See  ef  you  can't  think  of 
some  o'  the  things."  But  I  see  the  myste- 
rious look  comin'  into  his  face,  so  I  did  n't 
wait;  I  thess  went  on: 

"  How  about  the  trust  thet  's  in  an 
egg  —  an'  love,  one  bird  for  another  —  an' 
nest-sense  -  -  an'  tree-knowledge  —  an' 
sky-ambition  —  an '  — 

An'  with  that,  he  interrupted  me. 

11  I  don't  see  the  trust,"  says  he,  "  in 
the  bird's  egg." 

"  Don't  you?  "  says  I.  "  Why,  they  's 
trust  all  round.  Trust  in  the  nest,  trust 
in  the  mother-bird,  trust  in  the  — 

"  Oh,  I  see.  Don't  explain  no  mo'," 
says  he.  He  's  impatient,  'cause  he  thinks 
fast. 

11  But  the  wonder  to  me  is,"  I  went  on, 
"  where  the  love  thet  comes  out  o'  the  egg 
into  the  bird  —  the  love  an'  the  sense,  an' 
the  mother-trust,  an'  all  —  where  they  're 
located  in  a  little  thing  like  this.  They  's 
lots  more  in  it  than  I  can  think  about. 
They  's  songs  in  it,  somewhere  —  one  kind 
o'  song  in  one  egg  an'  only  a  chirp  in  an- 


THE    SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  109 

other.  An',  then,  they  's  the  man-fear  — 
in  all.  Ef  everything  was  n't  in  its  place, 
the  songs  would  git  mixed  up  with  the 
man-fear,  an'  - 

"  Don't!  Gramper,  what  makes  you 
keep  sayin'  i  man-fear  "?  I  hate  that 
word."  An'  he  looked  purty  serious. 

* '  Oh,  well, ' '  says  I,  "  of  co  'se,  they  's 
boy-fear  —  an'  cat-fear.  Maybe  we  ought 
to  call  it  thess  enemy-fear. ' ' 

Well,  that  would  n't  do  at  all.  It  excited 
'im  even  worse. 

"  What  're  you  puttin'  us  in  with  the 
cats  an'  dogs  for?  "  says  he.  "  We  ain't 
enemies.  We  're  friends." 

"  You  an'  I  may  be,  Son,"  says  I; 
"  but  the  long  race  o'  mankind  has  pur- 
sued the  birds  in  all  ages,  so  thet  now  they 
all  come  into  the  world  with  a  palpita- 
tin'  dread  o'  man.  It  's  got  fixed  in  the 
egg." 

"  Ain't  that  awful!  "  says  the  boy,  an' 
I  knew  I  had  awakened  his  little  soul. 

"  Yes,  Son,  it  seems  so,"  says  I.  "  An' 
yet,  in  the  same  egg  with  the  man-fear  is 
wing-stren'th  an'  sky-knowledge,  an'  the 
cunnin'  thet  '11  enable  a  bird  to  secrete  her 
nest  in  the  enemy's  country.  But  let  'em 


no  SONNY'S  FATHER 

once-t  git  up  an'  away  —  let  a  bird  tilt  on 
a  tree-top  an'  sing  —  away  up  beyon' 
reach,  an'  the  colors  of  his  feathers  '11 
shine  fearless  in  the  sun." 

"  An'  how  do  they  know  —  who  tells 
'em?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  like  to  say.  You  know, 
I  promised  to  keep  Somebody  out  o'  this 
story,  an'- 

With  that,  he  bu'st  out  laughin'. 

"  Better  let  Him  in,  Gramper!  "  says 
he,  clappin'  his  hands. 

11  Maybe  it  's  thess  ez  well,"  says  I. 
"  Seem  like  He  is  in,  whether  we  mention 
His  name  or  not." 

"  Why  don't  you  say  it,  then,  Gram- 
per? " 

"  I  'lowed  thet  maybe  you  'd  like  to  do 
that,  Son.  S'pose  you  say  it." 

"  I  knew  you  was  talkin'  about  God  all 
the  time,"  says  he.  "  Can't  fool  me!  We 
could  n  't  keep  Him  out,  could  we  ?  '  He 
was  that  tickled  over  it! 

* '  No, ' '  says  I ;  "  not  whilst  they  's  mer- 
icles  around." 

"  What  is  a  mericle?  "  says  he,  serious 


ag'in. 


Well,"  says  I,  "  you  Ve  hit  me  hard, 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TKEE-TOPS  111 

Son.  That  's  a  big  question ;  but  I  reckon 
we  '11  find  some  sort  o '  answer  to  it.  Them 
thet  has  studied  over  it  most  says  thet  life 
is  the  greatest  mericle, —  life  an'  love,  - 
an'  to  that  I  'd  like  to  add  joy.  It  ain't 
only  the  life  o'  the  bird,  an'  the  love  thet 
made  him  an'  thet  sends  him  flyin'  acrost 
the  sky  after  his  little  mate,  but,  to  my 
mind,  the  song  in  the  tree-tops  is  a  mericle. 
It  's  joy  —  joy  in  the  face  of  everything. 
It  's  mighty  hard  to  look  in  any  direction 
an'  not  see  life,  or  love,  or  joy  —  an' 
mostly  all  three.  An'  wherever  they 
be—" 

"  Lemme  say  it,  Gramper.  *  God!  '  I 
like  that  story,  because  it  was  n't  about 
behavior  an'  obedience  —  an'  washin'  yo' 
face  an'  hands.  Tell  me  another." 

That  's  always  the  last  thing  he  says 
after  a  story  —  "  Tell  me  another." 

Well,  that  was  day  befo'  yesterday,  an' 
yesterday  I  missed  the  little  new  specimen 
egg  out  o'  the  nest,  an'  I  ast  'im  what  he 
had  done  with  it,  an'  what  you  reckon  he 
said? 

Said  he,  lookin'  sort  o'  mysterious  an' 
short-lived  —  the  way  I  always  feel  oneasy 
to  see  him  look  —  says  he : 


112  SONNY S   FATHER 

"  Oh,  I  thess  changed  my  mind  about  it. 
I  put  it  back." 

"  How  come  you  to   do  that,   Son?  ' 
says  I. 

"  Oh,  I  thess  kep'  a-thinkin'  about  God 
in  there  with  the  three  little  mericles  ready 
to  work  out,  an'  so  I  slipped  it  back.  An' 
I  don't  think  she  'd  missed  it." 

"  Thought  about  all  that  feather-paint 
goin'  to  loss,  did  you!  ' 

"  No,"  says  he.  Then,  shakin'  his  little 
curls:  "  'T  wasn't  that.  An'  it  wasn't 
much  for  the  life  an'  the  love.  I  kep' 
thinkin'  about  the  wings  an'  the  sky  — 
an'  the  song  in  the  tree-tops.  That  's 
why. ' ' 

"  An'  what  about  yo'  specimen,  Son?  ' 
says  I,  scrutinatin'  his  little  face  whilst  I 
put  the  question. 

"  I  '11  take  my  chances  —  after  God  's 
done  with  it,"  says  he.  "  When  He  lets 
the  mericles  out,  maybe  they  '11  be  a  good 
empty  shell  —  or  some  nice  pieces.  Or  He 
might  leave  me  a  whole  one.  He  could.9' 

11  An'  ef  not?  "  says  I. 

"Then  I'll  try  next  year  —  an'  next 
year." 

"  You  'd  rather  be  one  specimen  short 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  113 

than  to  break  up  a  resurrection  song, 
would  you?  " 

An',  with  that,  what  you  reckon  he  said? 
Said  he: 

11  I  would  now,"  says  he;  0"  but  next 
year  maybe  I  '11  be  bigger  —  an'  crueler. 
An'  I  '11  get  all  the  specimens  I  want.  An' 
I  '11  whistle  loud,  to  drownd  the  tree-top 
song." 

Sonny  thinks  thet  that  was  purty  high- 
class  talk  for  a  five-year-old;  but  he  can't 
ricollect  his  own  youth,  of  co'se. 

I  often  wished  I  'd  kep'  a  book  —  or  she 
had  —  thess  to  note  down  Sonny's  sayin's 
whilst  he  was  in  little  dresses.  They 
say  thet  even  passably  good  child 'en  go 
th'ough  a  cruel  stage;  but  Sonny  never. 
Of  co'se  he  sometimes  rode  'is  horse  too 
hard;  but  that  was  ignorance.  But  he 
never  forgot  his  oats.  An'  now  his  sleek 
live-stock  is  the  talk  o'  the  county. 

I  like  child 'en  to  grow  up  with  the  re- 
sponsibility of  dependent  life  about  'em; 
an'  the  more  service  it  requires  of  'em, 
the  better. 

That  's  my  chief  objection  to  most  o'  the 
new  labor-savin'  machines:  they're  so 
senseless  an'  cold. 


114  SONNY S   FATHER 

I  like  a  horse.  I  like  his  looks,  an'  his 
touch,  an'  his  breath  —  not  to  speak  of  his 
recognition.  -What  is  sweeter  to  a  tired 
farmer,  after  a  day's  work,  when  he  's  fed 
his  horse,  an'  watered  an'  curried  'im,  an' 
put  'im  up,  than  to  hear  'im  whinny  I 

That  's  my  principal  obnoxion  to  auto- 
mobiles. It  's  lack  of  heart,  along  with 
insanity,  an'  a  disposition  to  override. 
Think  of  a  horse  with  a  "  honk!  "  for  a 
whinny  —  an'  a  gasolene  breath! 

I  Ve  talked  to  my  stock,  mo'  or  less,  all 
my  life  —  not  the  way  ole  nigger  Proph' 
confides  in  his  dogs  an'  mule,  maybe,  but 
thess  companionable,  an'  they  've  always 
rewarded  me  in  affection. 

Imagine  a  man  o'  feelin'  pourin'  gaso- 
lene into  a  motor-car  an'  pattin'  it  on  the 
tank,  the  way  I  always  done  Traveler,  an' 
teasin'  it  about  bein'  so  greedy. 

They  ain't  nothin'  endearin'  about  a 
motor  car. 

It  's  the  over-rich  man's  chariot,  the 
automobile  is  —  takes  the  road  an'  escapes 
responsibility,  ef  it  can.  Good  horses  are 
for  the  wealthy  an'  respectable,  accordin' 
to  my  mind.  Not  thet  a  good  horse  won't 
sometimes  prove  a  bad  influence.  An'  I  'm 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  115 

not  sayin'  thet  a  steady  man  never  rides 
in  automobiles.  Sonny  has  rid  in  one 
sev'al  times,  an'  he  talks  about  inventin' 
a  new  kind ;  an '  of  co  'se  ef  they  're  han- 
dled an'  improved  by  conscientious  people, 
they  may  be  redeemed. 

Still,  I  can't  see  any  great  good  comin' 
to  mankind  th'ough  lightnin'  speed.  I 
ain't  any  too  much  in  favor  of  electrocu- 
tion for  the  guilty,  much  less  for  the  inno- 
cent, on  our  highways. 

What  's  that  you  say,  Doc'?  Yas,  no 
doubt,  I  do  talk  too  much ;  but  you  're  sech 
a  good  listener  —  what  's  that  you  say? 
"  Do  I  like  a  mule?  " 

No,  I  don't  like  a  mule  —  not  to  ride 
behind.  An'  a  donkey  I  never  could  take 
serious.  Can't  convince  me  thet  a  donkey 
don't  know  he  's  funny,  Doctor.  Look  into 
the  face  of  the  next  one  you  see,  —  or 
hear,  —  an'  you  '11  see  what  I  mean.  He 
knows  he  's  the  joker  in  the  pack.  But 
I  'd  ruther  be  him  than  a  mule  twice-t  his 
size.  He  's  unmistakable,  whilst  a  mule  's 
uncertain  —  an'  precarious. 

I  don't  believe  much  in  mixin'  races, 
nohow  —  not  even  the  human. 

Even  in  the  vegetable  kingdom,  I  can't 


116  SONNY S   FATHER 

say  ez  I  'm  much  attracted  to  too  much 
cross-fertilizin',  although  the  production 
of  freaks  is  always  amusin',  an'  the  mu- 
seums has  to  be  supplied.  But  when  it 
comes  to  confusin'  potatoes  an'  tomatoes, 
f '  instance,  till  you  secure  a  doubtful-fla- 
vored nondescrip'  betwixt  the  two  an'  call 
it  a  pomato  or  a  topato,  like  ez  ef  you  had 
lost  a  front  tooth,  why  I  'd  draw  the  line. 
They  's  a  heap  o'  difference  'twixt  a  hybrid 
an'  a  high  breed. 

Yas,  I  'd  keep  my  vegetables  an'  fruits 
intac',  an'  when  I  craved  'em  mixed,  I  'd 
ask  for  a  tutti  frutti  puddin'  or  a  succotash 
sech  ez  Mary  Elizabeth  concocts. 

The  perfectin'  of  common  things  an'  the 
removal  of  obstacles  seem  like  it  would  re- 
sult in  perfect  ease  an'  unrelieved  health, 
after  a  while ;  but  I  s  'picion  it  '11  only  mean 
a  shiftin'  of  pivots,  an'  a  new  class  of  ail- 
ments —  an'  healers. 

Too  many  stairs  in  a  staircase  used  to 
be  given  ez  a  cause  of  heart-disease,  an* 
now  they  say  the  alleviators  in  the  cities 
has  th'owed  so  many  o'  the  abominable 
muscles  out  o'  commission  thet  they  ain't 
nothin'  to  suppo't  the  useless  appendages 
within,  an'  now  any  child  knows  how  to 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  117 

pronounce  appendicitis  —  an'  they  're  put- 
tin'  it  in  the  American  spellers. 

It  's  a  disease  of  the  hour,  accordin'  to 
my  mind,  —  trouble  between  the  labor- 
unions  an'  the  leisure  class,  —  that  is,  sup- 
posin'  the  medical  profession  has  got  the 
right  of  it. 

They  are  right  —  sometimes. 

You  nee'  n't  to  laugh,  Doc' ;  I  'm  talkin' 
about  the  generality.  Of  co'se  you  're 
always  right,  but  I  don't  know  ez  I  think 
you  are  so  much  of  a  doctor  ez  a  man  o' 
sense.  Yas,  you  may  laugh !  All  the  same, 
ef  it  's  ever  needful  to  do  any  carvin' 
aroun'  me,  I  'd  trust  you  to  do  it,  for 
I  'd  be  shore  you  'd  keep  clair  of  my  vi- 
tals. 

Yas,  eighty- three  this  comin'  month,  an' 
not  disturbed  over  it.  You  ricollect  I  was 
fifty  when  Sonny  come,  an'  I  used  to  have 
anxieties  less'n  I  might  not  live  to  see  a 
grandchild.  An'  look  at  me  —  seven,  an' 
no  len'thenin'  intervals  between  'em  yet, 
an'  me  more  composed  an'  tranquilized  in 
feeble  health  than  ever,  an'  not  a'  ache  or 
a  pain ! 

They  say  I  Ve  made  a  fairly  good  grand- 
father, but  I  don'  know.  I  'm  talkative,  — 


118  SONNY'S  FATHER 

that  's  one  thing,  —  an'  children  they  like 
talk. 

I  'm  glad  the  seventh  is  a  boy;  a  lucky 
number,  with  a  boy  at  each  end,  ain't  bad. 
What  's  that,  Doc'?  Do  I  believe  sech  ez 
that  1  Oh,  I  believe  'most  anything  in  mod- 
eration, but  I  don't  let  superstition  run 
away  with  my  reason.  F'  instance,  I  be- 
lieve seven  is  luckier  than  six,  but  not  so 
lucky  ez  eight,  come  to  havin'  child 'en  sech 
ez  ours. 

But  yo'  namesake,  little  Doc',  Doc',  —  I 
don't  want  to  insinuate  thet  he  ain't  well, 
—  I  could  n  't  stand  it,  —  but  you  give  'im 
a  lookin'  over  befo'  you  go.  He  surprises 
me  too  often  with  his  wise  talk  —  that  is, 
too  often  for  the  occasional  white  look  in 
'is  face.  What  's  that?  Oh,  yas,  he  's  a 
beauty ;  but  they  all  are,  more  or  less.  He 
looks  like  the  Apostle  John  of  my  imagi- 
nation, an'  he  is  like  'im  with  me.  You 
know,  he  was  the  "  loved  apostle,"  John 
was  —  thess  a  little  nearer  to  the  Master's 
heart  than  the  others. 

I  ain't  never  said  this  much  before  even 
to  myself,  but  they  's  days  when  I  get  a 
little  pain  in  my  heart  about  the  little  fel- 
ler, he  's  so  game  an'  so  clair-eyed,  an'  he 


THE   SONG   IN  THE  TREE-TOPS  119 

don't  know  the  meanin'  of  fear.  The  very 
thought  of  it  in  a  bird  seemed  to  disturb 
Mm,  an'  he  talked  in  his  sleep  night  befo' 
last.  First  he  scolded,  an'  I  heerd  'im  say 
"  Man-fear,"  an'  then  presently  he  called 
out  ag'in  "  The  song  in  the  tree-tops."  I 
reproached  myself  for  appealin'  to  him  too 
serious. 

I  don't  like  that  little  blue  vein  acrost 
his  little  nose,  so  to-day  I  've  spent  out- 
doors with  'im,  under  the  trees,  an'  I  Ve 
avoided  thoughtful  talk,  an'  we  Ve  played 
hide- an '-seek  without  me  movin'  out  o' 
place. 

How  do  we  do  it?  Oh,  that  's  easy  — 
only  makin'  pertend.  I  make  up  my  mind 
where  I  'd  hide  ef  I  could,  —  an'  it  always 
has  to  be  a  place  big  enough  for  a  man  o' 
my  size,  an'  in  a  place  where  it  would  be 
possible  to  find  me,  —  and  I  holler  "  hot  r 
an'  "  cold,"  accordin'  ez  he  approaches  the 
spot.  I  'm  allowed  to  climb  up  or  down, 
but  not  to  fly,  an'  they  has  to  be  some  rea- 
son why  he  could  n't  see  me,  if  I  was  where 
I  'm  supposed  to  be  hidin'.  Yas,  it 's  imag- 
inative, but  it  ain't  distressin'. 

I  was  hid  the  longest  time  this  mornin' 
right  there  in  that  red  hammock,  befo'  his 


120  SONNY S  FATHER 

eyes,  an'  when  he  found  it  out,  he  was 
tickled  over  it. 

Says  he,  '  *  Why,  Gramper,  you  hid  thess 
like  the  birds  hide  their  nests  —  by 
matchin'  colors!  " 

Mary  Elizabeth  she  bought  me  this 
maroon-colored  dressin'-gownd  'cause  she 
allowed  it  was  cheerful.  You  see,  it  took 
purty  good  imagination  in  a  five-year- 
old,  —  well,  say  a  six-year-old,  which  he 
is  nearly,  —  to  realize  the  matchin'  of  col- 
ors when  I  really  wasn't  in  the  ham- 
mock—  thess  pertendin'.  But  of  co'se  I 
had  on  the  red  gownd  —  a  leetle  darker 
than  the  hammock. 

So  you  look  'im  over,  Doc',  an'  maybe 
you  '11  approve  of  droppin'  a  few  nails  to 
rust  in  his  drinkin '-water,  or  ef  you  think 
a  change  of  air  would  make  'im  less  keen 
an'  more  ruddy,  why,  we  '11  git  'im  away 
to  Baker's  Springs  —  or  Eureka.  I  might 
take  'im  there  myself. 

He  's  slep'  in  my  room,  in  his  little  bed, 
ever  sence  the  night  he  ceased  to  be  the 
youngest,  when  he  lacked  sev'al  weeks  of 
bein'  two  year  old.  He  was  a  little  man 
then,  although  he  couldn't  talk  plain  — 
ricollec'  him  sayin'  the  first  night  he  slep' 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  121 

there, ' '  Call  me,  ef  you  need  anyfing  in  the 
night,  Gramper!  "  An'  we-all  laughed  so 
at  it.  He  had  heerd  his  ma  say  that  so 
often. 

He  's  always  had  middlin'  thin  wrists 
for  a  boy,  an'  he  's  too  inquisitive  about 
unknown  things.  Still,  he  's  got  enough 
o '  the  old  Adam  in  his  temper  to  encourage 
me  to  think  he  ain't  too  good  for  this 
world.  An'  I  'm  glad  of  it.  Temper  's  a 
good,  honest  fault,  once-t  git  it  in  hand. 

They  's  always  been  somethin'  birdlike 
about  'im,  though,  an'  befo'  he  cut  his 
secon'-year  teeth,  I  used  to  look  for  'im  to 
fly  away  some  days.  He  had  a  light  nut- 
term '  motion  with  his  little  arms,  like  ez 
ef  he  'd  fly,  whilst  he  was  so  puny,  —  a 
motion  thet  seemed  like  a  threat,  —  an' 
I  Ve  sometimes  shut  my  eyes  an'  tried  to 
think  what  I  would  do  ef  — 

You  see,  Doc',  that  's  one  experience  thet 
we  've  been  spared.  The  child 'en  have  all 
kep'  well  an'  strong,  an'  things  has  gone 
along  prosperous;  an'  sometimes  I  stand 
off  in  admiration  of  Sonny  an'  Mary  Eliza- 
beth, the  way  they  keep  so  tender  an'  sweet 
in  the  face  of  uninterrupted  prosperity. 

I  'm  glad  I  've  had  the  chance  to  confide 


122  SONNY'S   FATHER 

in  you  about  the  boy,  Doc',  an'  I  feel  bet- 
ter. Sometimes  I  sca'cely  know  how  to 
proceed  with  'im.  Our  imagination  games 
seem  innocent  enough,  an'  he  dotes  on  'em, 
but  even  in  this  I  've  been  brought  purty 
close-t  up  to  the  edge  o '  things. 

Says  to  me  this  mornin',  says  he,  —  an' 
I  could  see  by  a  twinkle  in  'is  eye  thet  he 
was  in  the  imagination  country,  —  says  he : 
"  I  was  n't  in  my  crib  las'  night,  Gramper, 
an'  I  didn't  lay  down  all  night.  I 
perched. ' ' 

"  Did  n't  you,  Son?  "says  I.  "  That 's 
funny,  because  they  was  a  little  feller  yo' 
size  thet  kissed  me  good  night,  an'  he  slep' 
right  there.  Who  could  it  'a'  been,  d'  you 
reckon?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  me  thet  kissed  you  all 
right,"  says  he,  "  an'  then  I  laid  my  out- 
sides  in  the  crib,  thess  to  fool  you,  an'  I 
flied  up,  —  an'  up  —  an'  up  to  the  bird 
country,  where  a  whole  lot  o'  birds  was 
perchin'  on  limbs,  noddin';  an'  every  little 
while  one  would  open  one  eye  an'  say 
'  Peep !  '  an'  shut  it  ag'in.  An'  when  I  bal- 
anced myself  on  the  limb,  they  all  opened 
their  eyes.  They  didn't  think  I  could  do 
it,  but  I  did." 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  123 

"  Wonder  who  it  could  V  been  thet 
waked  up  this  mornin'  in  the  crib  beside 
my  bed?  "  says  I.  "  He  had  yo'  features 
exact. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  I  was  back  by  that  time, ' '  says  he. 
' '  The  birds  started  to  fly  away  whilst  the 
stars  was  shinin',  all  talkin'  at  once, — 
thess  bird-talk,  Gramper,  —  an'  they  made 
funny  noises.  I  think  they  must  'a'  been 
rehear  sin'  for  their  tree-top  songs."  An' 
then,  says  he,  "  Ef  I  ever  stop  bein'  a  little 
boy,  I  hope  God  '11  let  me  be  a  bird,  an' 
I  '11  sing  in  the  tree-tops  all  the  days. ' ' 

Then,  seein'  me  feel  of  his  wrist,  he 
says,  "  What  're  you  feelin'  my  pulse  for, 
Gramper?  " 

' '  So  you  say  the  birds  rehearses  •  for 
their  songs,  same  as  you  Sunday-school 
child 'en?  "  says  I,  'lowin'  to  divert  'is 
mind  whilst  I  felt  of  'is  pulse  on  the  sly. 

"  Not  the  same,"  says  he.  "  We-all  re- 
hearse Christmas  an'  Easter  carols,  an' 
they  do  the  tree-top  songs.  I  wonder  do 
the  birds  know  about  Christmas,  Gram- 
per? " 

"I  wouldn't  be  surprised,"  says  I, 
"  they  know  so  many  things." 

"  Yas,"  says  he;  "  they  know  about  pic- 


124  SONNY  S   FATHER 

nic  days,  I  'm  shore,  an'  they  have  theirs 
same  day  as  ours  off  o'  our  crumbs;  an* 
they  know  night  an'  mornin',  even  befo' 
they  show,  an'  they  go  to  their  tree-beds 
whilst  they  can  see,  an'  they  beat  the  sun 
up  in  the  mornin's,  an'  know  where  to  find 
straws,  an'  water,  an'  worms.  An'  Daddy 
says  they  know  when  it  's  goin'  to  rain, 
an'  they  put  on  rain-coats  —  an'  we  know 
what  that  means.  They  waterproof  their 
swaller-tail  coats  with  their  mouths,  an' 
turn  'em  into  mackintoshes!  Daddy  said 
that.  Ain't  Daddy  great,  Gramper?  " 

"  Yas,  Son,"  says  I,  bridgin'  the  three 
generations,  with  solid  content, ' '  Daddy  is 
great. ' ' 

"  An'  they  know  bird-talk,"  he  went  on, 
"  because  I  hear  'em  jabberin',  an'  the 
sparrers  they  augue  an'  wrastle  turrible. 
An'  I  b'lieve  the  mockin '-birds  make  fun 
o'  some  o'  the  birds  they  're  mockin'.  I 
would,  ef  I  was  doin'  it. 

"  But  I  ain't  shore  about  them  knowin' 
Christmas,"  says  he,  lookin'  away;  "  but 
I  tell  you,  Gramper,  ef  birds  have  nestes 
in  the  Christmas-tree  groves,  they  must 
hear  the  trees  wonderin'  which  one  would 
be  chose  for  the  child 'en's  tree,  all  the 


THE   SONG  IN  THE  TREE-TOPS  125 

trees  hopin'  to  be  the  one,  even  when  they 
knew  they  'd  haf  to  be  sac'erficed,  so  they 
must  know  about  the  Christ-child,"  says 
he.  You  see,  Sonny  an'  Mary  Elizabeth, 
they  Ve  always  read  aloud  to  the  children 
consider 'ble. 

So  he  kep'  on  talkin'  to  'isself,  like,  an' 
lookin'  puzzled,  same  ez  a  grown  person 
seekin'  the  truth,  an'  somehow,  try  ez  I 
might,  I  couldn't  seem  to  turn  'is  mind 
into  frivolity,  an'  that  mysterious  look  it 
lingered  in  'is  face.  But  d'rec'ly,  says  he, 
his  eyes  lightin',  says  he:  "I  tell  yer, 
Gramper,  I  reckon  the  birds  o'  paradise 
they  know  —  'cause  they  are  Bible-birds. ' ' 

"  An'  so  is  sparrers,"  says  I,  "an' 
eagles  —  an'  others." 

"  Yas,  but  the  paradise-birds  they  're 
different,"  says  he.  "  They  must  'a'  knew 
Adam  an'  Eve  an' —  " 

"  Yas,"  says  I,  "an'  for  all  we  know, 
they  might  'a'  been  hatched  in  the  Tree  of 
Knowledge,"  says  I,  tryin'  to  be  extry 
smart.  An'  what  do  you  think  that  little 
six-year-old  said  to  that!  Says  he,  lookin' 
right  at  me,  argumentative  as  a  lawyer, 
says  he : 

"  That  wouldn't  'a'  done  'em  no  good, 


126  SONNY'S  FATHER 

lessen  they  picked  at  the  fruit.  It  's  eatin' 
it  did  the  damage,"  says  he.  "  Ef  that 
would  do  it,  all  a  boy  would  haf  to  do 
would  be  to  be  born  in  colleges,"  says  he, 
scrapin'  'is  first  fingers  together  at  me. 
Sometimes  I  think  he  's  too  smart. 

Then  he  started  reflectin'  ag'in,  an' 
d'rec'ly  says  he: 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  bee-u-tiful,  Gramper, 
ef  the  paradise-birds  all  rose  up  together, 
an'  the  rest  had  to  draw  straws  to  see  who 
could  go  up  on  Christmas  mornin's? 
They  'd  haf  to  have  some  mockin '-birds 
an'  canaries  to  do  the  singin';  an'  they  'd 
fly  up  —  an'  up  —  an'  up  —  an'  up,  above 
the  paradise-birds'  tree-tops  before  day, 
all  thess  findin'  their  way  by  the  Bethle'm 
star,  till  the  birthday  sun  would  shine  out 
an'  light  up  the  feathers,  an'  they  'd  all 
start  singin'  Christmas  carols  —  thess  like 
a  big  choir. 

"  An'  maybe  they  do,  for  all  we  know. 
Daddy  says  thet  even  one  o'  these  thin- 
wing  mosquito-hawks  could  tell  us  beau- 
tiful things,  ef  we  had  fine  enough  hearin' 
to  listen;  but,"  says  he,  drawin'  a  long 
breath,  "  th'  ain't  no  use  guessin'  —  an' 
I  'm  tired.  They  's  lots  o'  things  I  do 


THE   SONG   IN   THE   TREE-TOPS  127 

know.     I  know  I  'm  a  boy  —  an'  I  know 

when  it  's  Christmas  —  ' ' 

"  An'  you  know  why,  too,"  says  I. 

"  You  bet  I  do,"  says  he,  an'  then  he 
rattled  off : 

Little  children,  can  you  tell, 
Do  you  know  the  story  well, 
Every  girl  an'  every  boy, 
Why  the  angels  sing  for  joy, 

On  this  Christmas  mornin'? 

11  I  Ve  knew  that  —  ever  since!  An'  I 
been  thinkin'  it  over,  Gramper,  an'  I  'd  a 
heap  ruther  stay  a  boy.  I  wouldn't  be  a 
bird,  lessen  I  had  to  stop.  Birds  are  all 
right,  but  they  're  thess  birds  —  an'  birds 
—  an'  birds  —  an'  birds  —  all  doin'  the 
same  way  - 

"  But  a  boy— " 

11  That  's  thess  my  opinion,  too,  Son," 
says  I.  "  I  Ve  been  several  things  myself, 
an'  it  's  ez  good  a  thing  ez  I  know.  Some 
says  I  'm  one  yet,  an'  I  hope  I  am. 

' '  I  often  wished  I  could  remember  when 
I  was  a  teenchy  baby,  like  the  little  new 
brother,  —  thess  nothin'  but  a  weenchy 
love-center  with  a  boyish  disposition  to 
pucker  his  mouth  to  whistle,  an'  from  that 


128  SONNY  S  FATHER 

on,  more  boyish  every  day,  cluckin'  to  the 
horses  before  he  can  talk.  It  all  goes  by 
stages.  Then  he  gits  to  be  a  mannish  boy ; 
an'  then  thess  a  man,  with  a  boyish  heart, 
an'  before  you  know  it,  he  's  surrounded 
loy  his  own  boys,  each  one  equipped  for 
devilment  along  with  duty,  so  he  's  obliged 
to  begin  life  a  little  soldier,  conquerin' 
wrong  an'  fightin'  for  the  right. 

"  So  I  think  you  're  wise,  Son,"  says  I. 
"  Ef  I  knew  I  was  liable  to  be  wiped  out 
sudden,  an'  had  a  last-minute  vote  ez  to 
what  I  'd  be  next,  I  'd  say,  '  Ef  it  's  the 
same  to  you,  dear  Lord,  thess  do  it  over 
ag'in.  Make  me  a  boy  ag'in.  TV  ain't 
nothin'likeit.'  " 

An ',  sir,  with  that,  what  does  that  young- 
ster do  but  yell  out,  "  Hooray!  "an'  fling 
his  best  velveteen  cap  into  the  top  o'  this 
maginolia-tree,  an'  it  rainin'  pitchforks  — 
an'  he  knowin'  he  'd  want  to  climb  for  it 
ag'inst  my  jedgment.  But  it  tickled  me  to 
have  him  do  it. 

He  ain't  none  too  good  to  live,  Doctor, 
thank  God! 


THE   CHILD  AT  THE   DOOE 

OLD  on  there,  Doctor!  Don't 
shove  that  button !  I  '11  come 
around  an'  let  you  in.  She  's 
asleep,  at  last,  an'  I  reckon  you 
better  not  disturb  'er,  even  you.  I  been 
waitin'  out  here  on  my  side  po'ch  to  inter- 
cept you,  so  's  you  wouldn't  ring.  Come 
right  out  an'  set  down,  an'  I  '11  tell  you  all 
about  it. 

It  's  little  Madge,  Doctor;  yas,  little 
Madge,  the  child  of  adoption,  an'  you  know 
we  're  thess  a  leetle  extry  ticklish  about 
her,  lessen  any  harm  was  to  come  to  'er. 

"  When?  "  you  say?  Why,  thess  yester- 
day —  come  home  from  school  with  'er  face 
too  flushed  an'  talkin'  mo'n  common  - 
kep'  up  lively  talk  all  th'ough  'er  dinner 
an'  didn't  no  mo'n  pick  at  'er  victuals, 
all  the  time  insistin'  thet  she  felt  fine. 
Eicollec'  one  thing  she  said  was  she  felt 

199 


130  SONNY  S   FATHER 

like  ez  ef  she  could  fly,  an'  when  I  felt  of 
'er  pulse,  she  made  game  o'  me  an'  says, 
"  I  'm  all  right,  Gramper !  ' : 

Call  me  Gramper?  Why  not,  I  like  to 
know?  Bless  her  little  heart!  Why,  Doc', 
ef  I  Ve  got  sech  a  thing  ez  a  favoryte 
gran 'child,  after  little  Marthy,  her  name- 
sake, an'  little  Doc'  who  requi'es  it  of  me, 
why,  it  's  little  Madge  Sutton  Jones,  dear 
an'  adopted  daughter  o'  the  house.  Well, 
I  should  say ! 

No,  that  's  so,  she  ain't  to  say  exac'ly 
little,  although  she  's  a  child  to  be  desig- 
nated that-a-way.  Some  women  is,  an'  it 
ain't  always  a  question  o'  size.  She  's  the 
tallest  o'  the  brood  now,  an'  ef  I  don't  say 
she  's  ez  purty  ez  any  o'  'em,  it  's  because 
I  'm  reticent. 

Don't  be  impatient,  Doctor.  I'm 
a-comin'  to  that,  now.  Ez  I  keep  tellin' 
you,  she  come  home  from  school  all  petered 
out  an'  thess  a  leetle  too  frivolous ;  did  n't 
eat  no  dinner  an '  asked  an '  was  allowed  to 
set  up  beyond  'er  usual  bedtime.  I  see 
that  Mary  Elizabeth  had  'er  motherly  eye 
on  'er  an'  she  follered  'er  up  stairs  an' 
it  was  n't  no  time  befo'  she  come  hurryin' 
back  for  Sonny  to  come  an'  feel  of  'er 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        131 

pulse,  an'  first  thing  we  knowed,  the  child 
was  settin'  up  in  bed,  preachin'  an' 
laughin'  an'  cryin'  all  at  once-t.  That  was 
the  time  Sonny  first  tried  to  git  you  on 
the  telephone  —  an'  we  ain't  none  of  us 
got  a  wink  o'  sleep  all  night. 

Sonny  says  she  recited  a  number  o' 
poems  correct  an'  she  's  sung  like  a  night- 
ingale, more  songs  than  you  'd  think  one 
bird  would  be  able  to  turn.  She  's  got  a 
fine  musical  talent,  an'  Sonny  said  las' 
night  he  intended  to  have  it  cultivated. 

Take  it  altogether,  Doctor,  it  's  been 
a  turrible  night  —  the  storm  outside  so 
the  house  trimbled,  an'  the  telephone  de- 
tached by  the  elements,  an'  that  little  girl 
carryin'  on  what  Sonny  calls  a  Protean 
show,  whatever  that  is  —  takin '  one  char- 
acter an'  then  another  the  whole  night 
th'ough,  an'  we-all  doin'  all  the  incapable 
things  we  knowed  how  for  'er  relief,  settin ' 
beside  the  bed  an'  smoothin'  'er  hand  one 
minute  an'  complimentin'  'er  on  'er  elo- 
cution the  next,  an'  Sonny  testin'  the  tele- 
phone every  little  while  in  a  vain  effort  to 
git  you  to  prescribe.  He  knowed  you 
couldn't  cross  Chinkapin  creek  durin'  the 
hurricane. 


132  SONNY S   FATHER 

Well,  it  was  a  night  of  storm,  in  an'  out 
doors,  but  thess  befo'  day,  when  he  had 
finally  got  you  on  the  telephone,  why,  she 
succumbed  to  sleep  —  an'  she  ain't  stirred 
sence.  No,  we  didn't  have  no  time  to 
f  oiler  no  directions.  When  Sonny  hung  up 
the  receiver,  she  was  sleepin'.  They-all 
advised  me  to  go  to  bed  then,  but  at  my 
age,  it  's  easier  to  rise  at  four  than  it  is  to 
go  to  sleep,  so  I  urged  Mary  Elizabeth  to 
go  an'  git  a  nap  o'  sleep  an'  Sonny,  he  's 
in  the  saddle,  ridin'  over  the  place  ez  he 
does  every  daybreak.  Dicey  's  gittin' 
the  coffee  ready  now,  thess  outside  the 
bedroom  door  there  an'  keepin'  an  eye, 
an'  I  stationed  myself  out  here  to  meet 
you. 

Little  Madge,  she  's  layin'  right  inside 
there,  an'  ef  she  was  to  stir,  we  'd  all  hear 
her.  No  doubt  it  's  thess  as  you  say,  Doc- 
tor. She  's  high-intellectual  strung,  an*  a 
year  out  o'  school  would  be  the  best  thing 
for  'er.  But  I  'd  dread  to  see  you  tell  'er ; 
she  's  sinfully  ambitious,  poor  little  hu- 
man—  an'  gits  only  misdirectin'  praise 
for  it,  on  all  sides. 

She  's  got  so  robust  these  last  three 
years,  seem  like  we  forgit  how  puny  she 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        133 

was  them  first  years  of  scant  nourishment 
which  have  to  be  overcome,  of  co  'se. 

Adoption  is  a  great  an'  honorable  word 
in  our  family,  Doctor,  an'  it  has  sort  o' 
gilt-edged  little  Madge  a  leetle  ahead  o '  the 
others  —  an'  we  want  it  so.  It  's  hard  to 
have  things  thess  exac'ly  right.  They  're 
ap'  to  shoot  over  or  under  the  mark,  so,  in 
various  little  ways,  we  strive  to  give  the 
adopted  one  the  higher  place.  Better  that 
than  the  lower  one  —  an'  otherwise,  she 
shares  every  advantage  an'  obligation, 
share  an'  share  alike.  We  let  'em  f oiler 
their  talents,  mainly,  an'  Madge,  she  's  the 
sociable  one,  with  a  tendency  to  cook. 
Sonny  an'  Mary  Elizabeth,  they  were  reso- 
lute in  one  thing :  they  would  n  't  have  no 
deception.  That  child  learned  to  say 
"  'dopted  "  befo'  she  knowed  the  meanin' 
o'  the  word,  an'  thet  she  had  some  sort  o' 
friendly  advantage  o'  the  rest  in  havin'  a 
extry  pair  o'  heavenly  parents,  same  ez 
ef  she  had  a  kind  of  individual  bank  ac- 
count to  draw  on  in  case  o'  need,  an'  she 
ain  't  never  hesitated  to  use  it,  in  argument. 
An'  ef  she  was  hard-pressed,  I  have  known 
'er  to  make  a  special  p'int  o'  bein'  chose, 
whilst  the  rest  o'  the  child 'en  had  to  be 


134  SONNY  S   FATHER 

took,  hit  an'  miss,  ez  they  come;  I  s'picion 
thet  Mary  Elizabeth  give  'er  that  weapon 
of  defense. 

Mary  Elizabeth  is  unusual.  It  ain't 
every  motherly  woman  thet  is  at  the  same 
step-motherly,  or  adopted-motherly,  the 
way  she  is.  She  seems  to  put  'erself  in 
every  child's  place,  an'  to  see  its  highest 
needs. 

They  's  two  distinctions  in  most  families, 
two  honors,  so  to  speak  —  the  eldest  an' 
the  youngest  —  an'  in  ours,  they  's  three, 
eldest,  youngest,  an'  'dopted,  an'  I  ain't 
shore  but  the  last  is  first,  ez  it  should  be. 

Our  eldest  has  always  been  looked  up  to, 
an'  Snowed  it,  but  we  ain't  never  weighed 
'im  down  with  a  sense  of  responsibility. 

I  Ve  seen  oldest  child 'en  all  but  robbed  o' 
their  youth  in  the  constant  demand  to  be 
"  a  livin'  example  "  to  the  younger  ones. 

I  notice  Sonny  an*  Mary  Elizabeth, 
they  '11  often  say  to  the  little  ones,  "  See 
how  pretty  big  brother  does  this  or  that, ' ' 
but  that  's  the  only  challenge  he  gets  —  an' 

II  big  brother  "  '11  go  through  his  paces 
like   a   merry   showman,   tickled  over  it. 
They  's  everything  in  how  a  thing  's  done. 

They  's  one  thing  shore ;   if  they  's  any 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        135 

element  of  total  depravity  in  our  child 'en, 
it  ain't  never  been  challenged  by  opposi- 
tion, an'  I  have  an  idee  thet  ef  total  deprav- 
ity is  let  alone,  an'  forgot,  it  '11  be  gradu- 
ally absorbed  an'  cast  out  o'  the  system. 
Oh,  yes,  I  know  I  ain't  quotin'  from  the 
catechisms,  exactly  —  but  you  an'  me,  we 
are  sort  o'  free-thinkers,  within  the  lines, 
an '  that  's  why  I  love  to  hear  you  talk ! 

But  goin'  back  to  the  'doption  o' 
child 'en,  why,  Doc',  one  o'  the  richest  lives 
I  can  imagine  would  be  thess  to  have  a  big, 
ample  home  an'  to  gradually  fill  it  with 
adoptions  —  thess  casual,  ez  the  opportun- 
ity come  along  —  an'  seem  like  I  'd  never 
be  so  happy  ez  when  I  knew  they  was  a 
child  at  the  door. 

I  'd  'a'  liked  that  to  Ve  been  my  fate, 
ef  Sonny  had  n't  arrived  an'  been  equal  to 
any  dozen  to  us.  But  like  ez  not,  ef  he 
had  n't  come,  an'  opened  our  hearts  an'  our 
eyes,  we  might  never  'a'  reelized  the  bless- 
edness o'  child 'en  in  the  house.  Yas,  I  'd 
'a'  been  glad  to  've  been  a  wholesale 
adopter  of  homeless  child 'en.  I  'd  even 
liked  to  Ve  put  out  a  sign,  "  Needy  chil- 
d'en  wanted  an'  no  questions  asked."  I 
never  could  see  the  sense  o'  all  the  cate- 


136  SONNY S   FATHER 

chizin'  they  carry  on  over  needy  child 'en. 
To  me  it  's  superfluous.  There  's  the  child, 
an'  it 's  its  own  answer.  Why,  I  Ve  known 
cases  for  adoption  quizzed  out  o'  all  coun- 
tenance. Adopters  seem  to  be  so  skeert 
less'n  they  '11  adopt  somethin'  unworthy  o' 
their  dignity. 

You  ricollec'  poor  Steve  Silverton,  Doc' I 
Well,  when  little  Madge's  father  died,  it 
seems  somebody  went  to  Steve's  wife  about 
her  —  that  was  befo'  we  'd  heard  it  —  an' 
she  was  for  takin'  the  child,  Mis'  Silverton 
was,  but  Steve  wouldn't  hear  to  it.  He 
made  some  mean  reference  to  * '  Old  Slouch 
Sutton,"  the  child's  father,  an'  he  'lowed 
she  was  n't  the  right  stripe  to  annex  to  the 
Silvertons.  I  often  wonder  ef  he  thinks 
about  that  now,  wearin'  his  own  peniten- 
tiary stripes  for  high-class  chicanery,  after 
castin'  slurs  on  poor  old  po-try-spoutin' 
Eli  Sutton,  who  never  did  a  de-liberate 
meanness  in  all  his  vagarious  life  an*  is 
sleepin',  honorably  forgot,  in  a  clean, 
weedy  grave  on  the  hillside. 

"  What  's  that,  Doc'?  Oh,  no.  He  ain't 
in  the  potter's  field  now.  One  o'  the  first 
things  Sonny  done  after  they  'dopted  little 
Madge  was  to  go  quietly  an'  have  his  re- 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        137 

mains  removed  into  a  pay  grave  —  an'  it  's 
all  decently  labeled,  which  ain't  no  more  'n 
fair  to  the  child. 

Yas,  she  's  been  down  there,  once-t.  You 
know,  Sonny  had  him  interred  down  in  the 
Ozan  where  he  was  born.  I  took  'er  down 
with  one  or  two  o'  the  child 'en,  an'  she  laid 
a  flower  there.  It  give  'er  a  sense  o'  dig- 
nity to  do  that.  Yas,  we  wanted  'er  to  Ve 
been  once-t,  anyway,  thess  so  she  would 
reelize  thet  she  could  go. 

I  've  often  thought  thet  a  graveless  adult 
person  must  feel  sort  o'  insignificant,  an' 
I  believe  they  do. 

Yas,  Steve  Silverton,  he  turned  little 
Madge  down,  I  'm  glad  to  say,  an'  so  did 
sev'al  of  our  best  families,  with  well- 
meanin'  prudence.  Jedge  Whittemore  was 
one  o'  them  thet  shook  his  head,  "  No," 
an'  I  ricollec'  they  say  he  related  a  fool 
story  of  a  man  he  'd  heard  about  thet 
adopted  a  child  of  obscurity,  an'  when  she 
was  fo'  years  old,  it  seems  she  slipped 
away  from  'er  nurse,  an'  run  an'  stood  on 
the  street  doorstep  in  'er  little  birthday 
suit,  in  great  glee  over  'er  escape  —  like  ez 
ef  thet  was  a  hyenous  crime  or  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  her  bein'  adopted. 


138  SONNY S  FATHER 

Why,  sir,  when  our  Sonny  was  six,  an' 
reely  ought  to  Ve  knowed  better,  did  n  't 
he  make  a  similar  escape  from  the  nigger, 
Dicey,  one  day,  in  nature's  scant  apparel, 
an'  he  never  stopped  till  he  got  to  the 
court-house,  all  the  way  th'ough  Main 
Street,  bef  o '  she  caught  him. 

But  we  didn't  consider  it  no  indication 
of  depravity  —  an '  it  never  occurred  to  us 
to  try  to  git  shet  of  him  on  that  account, 
or  wish  we  could  send  'im  back  where  he 
come  from. 

What  's  that?  Oh,  yas,  they  returned 
that  little  fo '-year-old  to  the  asylum,  on 
account  of  'er  escapage  —  'lowed  thet  they 
didn't  dast  to  take  the  resk  of  'er  morals, 
not  knowin'  but  this  "  tendency,"  I  believe 
they  called  it,  might  prove  the  beginnin'  o' 
the  end. 

Yas,  sir,  they  done  that  —  an'  she  four. 
No  doubt  they  was  on  the  lookout  for  indi- 
cations o'  total  depravity  an'  were  grateful 
for  havin '  it  revealed  in  time. 

An '  —  what  you  say  ?  Did  n 't  the  Whit- 
temores — ?  Why,  yes,  they  did.  After 
turning  Madge  down  on  account  o'  the 
story  o'  the  baby  on  the  front  steps,  they 
'dopted  his  wife's  nephew,  Archie  Atkin- 


Every  little  orphan  asylum  child  is  in  a  sense  waiti'u'  out- 
side our  gates. 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        139 

son,  of  Atkinsonville  —  'dopted  him  glee- 
fully, knowin'  all  about  all  the  fine  strains 
thet  was  united  in  his  pedigree  —  an'  thess 
ez  soon  ez  he  was  old  enough,  why  Archie, 
he  went  out  in  all  his  clo'es,  an'  disgraced 
the  whole  caboodle !  Poor  Archie !  He  was 
the  last  of  an  enfeebled  line,  a  nachel,  well- 
dressed  scapegoat,  without  a  garment  o' 
decency  to  clothe  hisself  with. 

We-all  felt  mighty  sorry  for  his  aunt  an' 
uncle.  You  see,  it  was  double  humiliation. 
Mis'  Whittemore  was  present  at  the  closin' 
exercises  o'  the  High  School  last  July,  an' 
I  couldn't  help  wonderin',  when  our  little 
Madge  was  called  up  every  few  minutes  to 
take  a  prize,  ef  she  remembered.  Her 
whole  name  was  called,  every  time,  Madge 
Sutton  Jones.  That  's  what  she  is  —  an' 
she  stands  on  it. 

Of  co  'se,  only  the  All-father  knows  what 
'er  fate  will  be.  That  ain't  for  us  —  not 
with  any  o'  the  child 'en.  One  mistake 
adopters  make,  in  my  opinion,  is  in  rushin' 
forward  to  results  an'  rewards.  Thess  the 
home-givin'  an'  the  happy  recipiency  of  a 
contented  child  might  be  its  own  daily  re- 
ward, it  seems  to  me. 

I  know,  in  our  Sonny's  most  troublous 


140  SONNY  8   FATHER 

days,  we  often  said  to  each  other,  her  an* 
me,  "  Ef  he  was  took  from  us  to-night, 
we  'd  be  overpaid  for  all  he  's  cost  us  — 
in  the  fullness  of  joy  he  's  brought  us," 
yas,  an'  that  when  he  was  thin-necked  an' 
cantankerous  with  his  stomach  teeth,  an* 
we  was  obligated  to  seize  our  joy  chiefly  in 
watchin'  him  sleep,  an'  oftentimes  takin' 
turns  at  fannin'  him,  all  the  August  nights 
th'ough. 

But  talkin'  about  family  traits  an'  hered- 
itary dispositions,  I  want  to  say  right  here 
thet  we  ain't  got  a  thing  to  worry  about  in 
little  Madge's  family  —  an'  ef  we  did, 
we  'd  refuse  to  worry  an'  try  to  crowd  it 
out. 

.  No,  her  father,  Eli  Sutton,  wasn't  no 
common  man.  He  accepted  town  assist- 
ance, I  know,  an'  his  child  has  come  to 
adoption,  but  they  was  some  stuff  in  that 
man,  an'  whilst  I  couldn't  never  exactly 
openly  uphold  him,  he  always  had  consid- 
erable secret  sympathy  from  me.  I  wish 
now  thet  I  'd  follered  my  instincts  an'  ex- 
tended a  hand  to  him  in  life. 

The  trouble  is  we  expect  the  wrong 
things  o'  the  wrong  people.  We  ought 
to  Ve  been  more  friendly  to  Eli.  When 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        141 

they  found  his  garret  full  o'  them  per- 
petual-motion devices,  an'  that  pitiful 
diary  with  them  courageous  entries  of  '  *  al- 
most perfected  ' '  —  why,  well  — 

I  'd  give  a  good  deal  ef  he  was  back 
ag'in,  poor,  uncomplainin'  worker,  ef  only 
long  enough  for  us  Christian  neighbors  to 
apologize  to  him  for  our  mistrust.  We 
often  think  of  it  —  an'  we  try  to  make  up 
to  little  Madge  all  we  can,  for  neglectin' 
him,  although,  of  co'se,  she  don't  know 
it. 

I  don't  call  that  bad  blood  for  a  child  to 
inherit.  They  's  some  admixture  of  the 
martyr  in  it  —  with,  of  co  'se  a  perponder- 
ance  o'  blame  fool  in  finances,  which  he 
couldn't  help. 

Her  mother  was  a  woman  of  intelligence 
an'  sperit,  but  I  'm  ashamed  to  say  she  cut 
out  an'  left  Eli,  although  she  must  Ve  knew 
about  his  perpetual  motion  devices,  an'  the 
long  night  stretches  o'  work  when  all  them 
candle  ends  was  burned  down.  It  seems 
she  got  tired  with  it  all,  an '  'lowed  she  was 
goin'  down  to  Galveston  to  pass  the  school 
examination  o'  the  state  o'  Texas,  for  a 
public  school  position,  an'  she  intended  to 
send  for  the  child  ez  soon  ez  she  could  pro- 


142  SONNY'S  FATHER 

vide  ' '  a  suitable  home, "  an '  you  know  she 
was  drownded  in  the  Galveston  storm. 

She  could  'a'  remained  at  home  an'  got 
less  money  here  for  teachin'  our  Simpkins- 
ville  primary  longer  hours,  an'  looked 
after  the  old  man.  Ef  a  wife  won't  do  that, 
who  will?  No,  she  chafed  under  the  style 
in  which  she  was  obliged  to  live  with  Eli, 
an*  so  she  went  off  in  search  of  refinement. 
That  was  when  Eli  first  took  to  drinkin', 
an'  I  never  blamed  him.  I  can  imagine 
what  it  was  to  be  left  in  a  cheerless  house, 
for  a  man  of  inventive  mind.  Why,  Doc', 
you  know  yo'self  thet  it  took  you  an'  me 
an'  her  an'  the  nigger,  Dicey,  all  three,  to 
wrastle  with  Sonny  th'ough  his  teethin', 
an*  ef  his  mother  had  up  and  lef '  me  then, 
I  'd  'a'  took  to  drink  in  a  minute!  They 
was  moments  when  I  'd  'a*  done  it,  any- 
how, ef  I  'd  'a*  knowed  how. 

I  tell  you,  Doc',  now  thet  you  scientists 
is  describin'  hookworms  an'  makin'  allow- 
ances for  "  sleepin'  sickness,"  an'  treatin' 
it  with  somethin'  besides  moral  persuasion, 
I  reckon  we  '11  have  to  change  the  classi- 
fication of  a  good  many  of  our  unfortunate 
brothers  who  didn't  seem  to  be  able  to 
keep  up  with  the  procession. 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        143 

Yas,  poor  Eli  Sutton  proved  in  mo '  ways 
than  one  thet  he  wasn't  no  common  man. 
He  had  originality,  an'  the  courage  to  ex- 
press it.  A  holder  of  unpopular  opinions, 
he  didn't  give  a  cent  who  listened  or  who 
reviled,  an'  they  's  somethin'  not  alto- 
gether despisable  about  that,  although  it 's 
ap'  to  be  tiresome. 

Why,  they  was  a  time  in  Eli's  youth 
when  he  edited  an*  printed  a  newspaper, 
out  west  —  an'  sold  it  —  't  least,  he  offered 
it  for  sale,  but  it  was  n't  no  best  seller,  ez 
they  say.  He  told  me  about  it,  hisself.  He 
run  an  entire  series  in  that  paper  on  the 
subjec'  o'  who  wrote  Shakespeare's  works. 
Ricollec',  he  was  for  a  literary  man  by  the 
name  o'  Hogg,  or  maybe  it  was  Bacon. 
Sence  the  child 'en  have  been  studyin'  high 
school  books  an'  I  hear  'em  their  lessons, 
why,  I  'm  gittin*  so  highly  educated  thet 
first  thing  you  know,  I  '11  be  settin'  fo'th 
theories  myself.  But  somehow,  Hogg  an' 
Bacon,  they  seem  to  run  together  in  a 
farmer's  mind. 

They  was  a  po  'try  writer  by  the  name  o ' 
Hogg.  He  's  dead,  now.  I  'm  shore  about 
that,  because  I  ricollec'  sayin'  I  'd  'a' 
thought  he  'd  'a'  changed  his  name,  thess 


144  SONNY  S   FATHER 

for  manners.  Then,  I  see  thet,  on  the  con- 
trary, he  had  affixed  a  second  "  g  "  to  it, 
for  emphasis  —  an'  I  see  he  was  game,  an' 
I  took  a  likin'  to  'im,  on  the  spot. 

Well,  sir,  that  series  run  a  year,  an'  it 
hurt  the  circulation  o'  the  paper  —  in  a 
farmin'  community  like  that. 

But  Sutton  did  other  things.  For  one 
thing,  he  invented  a  sort  o'  cement  for  the 
construction  o'  houses,  thess  takin'  the  dirt 
of  a  person's  back  yard  an'  combinin'  it 
with  chemicals,  an'  he  believed  in  it  so 
thorough  thet  he  built  a  residential  home 
out  of  it,  an'  they  say  it  looked  elegant  an' 
substantial  an'  it  reely  was  wind-an '-fire- 
proof, an'  he  saw  his  everlastin'  fortune 
in  it,  but  it  seems  one  o'  them  western 
fall  rains  set  in  —  a  regular  six-weeks' 
soaker  —  an'  the  house  thess  nachelly  sub- 
sided during  one  night,  an'  befo'  mornin' 
Eli  an'  his  family  foun'  theirselves  well 
placed  for  the  study  of  astronomy. 

It  seems,  he  had  left  out  some  adhesive 
ingregent,  so  the  stuff  wouldn't  hold  out 
in  a  storm  —  somethin'  like  the  man  him- 
self. Beyond  the  inconvenience  o'  the  oc- 
currence, it  seems  he  wasn't  fazed  in  the 
least.  He  'lowed  he  realized  the  mistake 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        145 

he  'd  made  an'  he  was  for  rebuildin'  the 
place  immediate,  but  his  wife,  she  refused 
to  occupy  it  with  him,  for  which  I  exoner- 
ate her,  entire.  They  's  some  experiments 
thet  a  person  don't  care  to  repeat. 

Oh,  no !  We  don 't  tell  the  child  sech  ez 
that.  What  good  would  it  do?  She  's  got 
'er  pa's  set  o'  Shakespeare's  plays  entire, 
with  no  end  o'  "  marginal  notes,"  Sonny 
calls  'em,  an'  we  encourage  'er  nachel  pride 
in  it.  Sonny  says  the  notes  is  full  o' 
ciphers,  but  I  never  could  find  no  oughts  to 
speak  of  in  it. 

What 's  that  you  say,  Doc'?  Was  n't  I 
responsible  for  Jedge  Townsend's  adoptin' 
that  boy?  Well,  s'posin'  I  was,  what  of  it? 
Don 't  you  think  it  was  a  good  day 's  work  ? 
Yas,  I  knew  you  'd  think  so.  I  Ve  often 
been  tempted  to  tell  you,  then  I  'd  put  it 
off. 

You  're  the  only  person  in  the  county 
thet  knows  what  blood  's  in  that  boy,  Doc- 
tor, ef  you  do  know  an'  from  yo'  continual 
lack  of  denial,  I  suspicion  you  do.  An'  I 
see  you  're  still  about  it  yet  —  which  is 
straight  goods. 

An'  you  'd  like  to  know  how  I  worked 
the  adoption,  would  you? 


146  SONNY  S   FATHER 

Well,  partly  by  my  nachel  gift  o'  elo- 
quence, I  reckon.  I  don't  mind  tellin'  you 
about  it,  seein'  ez  it  's  turnin'  out  so  happy. 

You  see,  his  wife  an'  him,  they  both 
knowed  thet  I  knowed  thet  you  'd  brought 
that  child  home  "  from  the  church  door," 
an'  was  keepin'  still  about  it.  Whether 
you  placed  it  there  before  or  after  takin'  it 
inside  an'  privately  baptizin'  it  or  not, 
we  '11  never  know.  You  whispered  the  one 
fact  of  the  findin'  to  me,  in  confidence  - 
an'  ez  you  hoped  I  might  do,  I  kep'  a  shet 
mouth  on  the  outside  an'  let  him  an'  his 
wife  know,  also  "  in  strictest  confidence." 
No,  we  '11  never  know  thess  how  you  found 
it,  but  we  do  know  thet  Moses's  little  sister 
never  guarded  the  ancient  law-giver 
amongst  the  bulrushes  with  more  respon- 
sible care  than  that  you  give  that  little 
foundlin'  befo'  Pharaoh's  daughter  in  the 
person  o '  Mis '  Townsend,  enfolded  it  in  her 
queenly  an'  motherly  arms. 

So  you  'd  like,  after  all  these  years,  to 
know  how  I  worked  it,  would  you?  I  '11 
tell  you,  Doc',  although  I  'd  never  'a'  men- 
tioned it  to  you  lessen  you  'd  asked  me. 
I  'm  a  silent  man  —  when  they  's  need  for 
it  —  an '  I  've  always  been  here  for  you  to 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        147 

question,  ef  you  'd  saw  fit.  I  s'pose  you 
thought  thet  the  more  you  could  say  you 
did  n't  know  on  the  subjec',  the  better. 

I  had  sev  'al  things  in  my  favor,  with  the 
Townsends,  among  other  things  an  ac- 
quaintance thet  runs  back  three  genera- 
tions. They  believe  me  to  be  honest,  an'  I 
think  likely  they  suspicion  me  to  be  fair- 
minded  an'  not  consciously  cruel.  An'  then 
I  knowed  they  needed  a  baby  —  an'  needed 
it  bad.  Human  hearts  are  like  eggs.  Ef 
they  lay  still  too  long,  they  git  addled,  an' 
a  child,  why  it  keeps  things  movin'  —  an' 
fresh. 

Yas,  we  had  often  discussed  adoption, 
they  an'  me,  an'  I  knowed  they  was  on  a 
still-hunt  for  an  adoptable  baby,  but  I  also 
knowed  their  prohibitions  on  the  subject. 
You  see,  she  's  an  aristocrat,  an'  in  some 
ways,  they  're  like  camels,  aristocrats  is  — 
that  is  when  their  aristocracy  strikes  out- 
ward. It  's  ap'  to  make  a  hump,  so  thet 
it  's  hard  to  git  into  the  kingdom  o' 
Heaven.  I  knowed  the  Townsends  had 
both  kinds  —  at  least  she  had,  or  else  I 
wouldn't  never  've  entrusted  one  o'  the 
Lord's  little  ones  to  'er. 

She  's  got  the  internal  aristocratic  prin- 


148  SONNY'S  FATHER 

ciple  in  'er  which  would  prevent  'er  from 
doin'  a  cheap  or  a  mean  act,  an'  ef  she  was 
a  little  humped  on  the  outside  with  the  con- 
sciousness o'  superiority,  why,  I  didn't 
mind,  for  I  knew  she  could  deliver  the 
goods,  an'  no  temptation  would  move  'er 
from  integrity. 

But  of  co'se,  a  woman  like  that,  she  's 
ap'  to  make  a  point  of  things,  an'  she  said 
she  'd  never  'dopt  no  child  of  uncertainty. 
They  had  plenty  o'  money,  an'  so  they  even 
preferred  to  have  the  child  penniless, 
which  was  a  pardonable  kind  o '  selfishness. 
They  wanted  to  be  everything  to  the  little 
one. 

Well,  when  you  told  me  about  this  baby, 
I  put  on  my  thinkin'  cap  —  an'  when  I  laid 
eyes  on  the  child  —  you  ricollec'  me  comin' 
over  an'  kodakin'  the  little  thing  with 
Sonny's  camera1?  Well,  I  never  showed 
you  that  picture.  Sez  I,  ef  he  can  be  shet- 
mouthed,  so  can  I.  I  got  a  lovely  picture, 
the  little  thing  thess  wakin'  out  o'  sleep, 
with  a  smile  on  its  face  —  an'  I  walked 
straight  to  the  Townsends  with  it  —  an' 
left  it  with  'em  to  look  at  —  an'  kep'  out  o' 
their  way  for  three  days,  so  they  'd  live 
with  it  a  while  bef  o '  anything  was  said. 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        149 

An'  on  the  fo'th  day,  Mis'  Townsend, 
she  wrote  an'  asked  me  to  come  over. 
They  wasn't  no  telephones  in  Simpkins- 
ville  them  days. 

Well,  I  went,  an'  I  went  charged  with 
success  so  thet  nothin'  else  would  do  me. 
I  made  up  my  mind  where  that  baby  hailed 
from,  an'  I  ain't  never  broached  it  to  this 
minute  —  but  I  ain't  never  changed  my 
mind,  neither. 

Well,  I  can't  pretend  to  repeat  a  con- 
versation, after  so  long.  I  went  on  the 
principle  o'  lettin'  them  do  most  o'  the 
talkin ',  but  little  by  little  I  called  attention 
to  things  thet  seemed  attractive  about  the 
baby,  not  thet  they  was  very  much  in  a 
three-days  '-old,  beyond  the  fact  thet  it  was 
a  baby,  an'  healthy  —  an'  happy.  Do  they 
often  smile,  I  wonder,  Doc',  at  three  days? 
I  s'pose  they  do.  Sonny  started  in  with 
all  his  functions  so  early,  I  don't  seem  able 
to  differentiate. 

Well,  we  talked  along.  I  told  'er  the 
down  on  his  little  head  was  a  sort  o'  yaller, 
like  corn  silk,  an',  of  co'se  it  didn't  take 
long  to  strike  the  snag  o'  legitimacy,  an'  I 
ricollec',  I  remarked  thet  from  the  little 
I  'd  been  able  to  gether,  the  baby's  own 


150  SONNY  S   FATHER 

folks  was  too  proud  an'  haughty  to  receive 
it  on  the  sly,  at  the  back  door,  when  circum- 
stances for  which  the  child  was  n  't  in  no 
wise  responsible  made  it  impossible  for  it 
to  enter  the  front  portal.  You  see,  I  used 
all  the  terms  I  could  command  thet  I 
thought  might  appeal  to  'er  hump.  I 
called  attention  to  the  baby's  nose-line 
which  happened  to  be  high  an'  straight, 
for  a  newly-born  —  an'  I  ricollec'  I  told 
'er  it  was  attired  in  linen  Cambridge  orna- 
mented with  valentia-lace  —  an'  this  set 
'er  laughin'.  I  ain't  never  told  that  on  my- 
self before,  an'  ef  I  mis-pernounced  any  o' 
that  finery,  why  you  are  to  blame,  Doctor. 
It  seems  to  me  yet  thet  you  said  the  goods 
was  Cambridge  an'  the  lace  valentia,  an' 
they  was  somethin'  else  yo'  wife  said, 
about  its  bein'  rolled  an'  whipped  —  but 
that  sounded  kind  o'  barbaric,  an'  I  omit- 
ted it. 

Well,  I  didn't  seem  to  be  makin'  much 
impression,  but  I  kep'  on,  casual.  Told 
'em  thet  ef  they  did  n't  want  that  child,  we 
did,  which  you  know  to  be  true,  in  a  general 
way.  Of  co'se,  we  didn't  need  the  child 
the  way  they  did.  I  didn't  seem  to  be 
makin'  no  headway  for  about  an  hour  or 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        151 

so.  The  Jedge,  he  had  come  in,  meantime, 
an'  whilst  her  an'  me  was  discussin',  he 
stood  lookin'  at  the  picture.  His  back  is 
ez  straight  ez  mine,  Doctor,  ef  his  ancestor 
did  sign  the  declaration.  No  hump  there. 
He  's  one  of  the  Lord's  aristocrats,  all 
gentleness  an'  nobility.  Well,  after  a 
while,  somethin'  rose  up  in  me.  I  think 
it  was  the  success  I  'd  come  for,  an'  I  sud- 
denly turned  on  my  eloquent  powers. 

'  *  My  friends, ' '  I  says,  or  words  to  that 
effect,  "  I  Ve  lived  a  long  time,  an'  for  the 
past  few  years  I  Ve  been  addicted  to  bio- 
graphical readin'.  It  's  my  favoryte 
branch  o'  literature,"  says  I,  "  after  the 
Bible,  which  is  largely  responsible  for  my 
biographical  taste,  for  it  's  largely  biogra- 
phy. An '  I  Ve  noticed, ' '  says  I, ' '  thet  the 
good  Lord  seems  to  take  notice  o'  these 
little  fatherless  ones  an'  He  bestows  gifts 
upon  'em  promiscuous,  an'  sometimes  I 
wonder  ef  He  don't  maybe  feel  Hisself  in 
some  special  way  a  Father  to  the  father- 
less, who  are  so  often  also  desolate  and 
oppressed." 

Well,  they  sent  over  an'  got  the  baby. 
That  was  my  maiden  effort  at  eloquence, 
an'  I  won  out.  Ef  I  'd  never  done  another 


152  SONNY'S  FATHER 

day's  work  in  my  life,  I  'd  almost  be  willin' 
to  Ve  lived  to  do  that  one  thing  —  espe- 
cially sence  he  's  been  readin'  medicine 
with  you,  an'  you  tell  me  what  a  fine  lad 
he  is. 

Talk  about  the  sea  givin'  up  its  dead! 
I  tell  you,  Doc',  the  revelations  of  the  dry 
land  '11  outweigh  the  sea's  dead,  when  the 
great  day  comes. 

By  the  way,  Doctor,  do  you  ever  hear 
from  Dr.  Cuthbertson's  daughter,  Char- 
lotte, these  days,  I  wonder?  The  first  of 
Simpkinsville  women  to  take  holy  orders, 
an'  a  noble  soul  she  was,  God  bless  her. 

1 1  Died  ?  ' '  you  say  —  in  a  cholera  camp  ? 
You  don't  say!  Well,  well!  "  Passed  like 
a  saint  amongst  'em,"  you  say,  "  an'  died 
at  the  end  of  the  season?  '  You  don't  tell 
me !  What  's  that  ?  You  say  they  's  men 
amongst  the  survivors  who  pray  to  'er  to 
this  day  —  say  their  prayers  at  night  to 
'er  thess  ez  ef  she  was  a  saint ! 

It 's  a  great  world  we  live  in,  Doctor, 
an*  not  so  much  in  need  of  theatres  ez  a 
person  might  think.  Settin'  back  the  way 
I  Ve  done  these  last  years,  an'  takin'  note 
o'  the  ins  an'  outs  o'  life,  I  often  feel  like 
ez  ef  I  might  be  watchin'  a  great  play. 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        153 

The  most  beautiful  young  woman  thet 
ever  trod  our  Simpkinsville  lanes  was 
Charlotte  Cuthbertson,  ez  I  remember 
'er  —  an'  it  don't  take  much  stretch  of 
imagination  to  see  'er  clothed  ez  a  saint, 
walkin'  amongst  the  sufferin'  soldiers. 

They  say  saints,  to  be  real  saints,  has  to 
suffer  crucifixion  —  an'  they  's  more  than 
one  kind  o'  crosses. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Doctor,  thet 
poor  little  Mary,  the  Bethlehem  mother, 
likely  suffered  'er  own  personal  crucifixion 
in  a  doubtin'  community  —  besides  the 
mortal  pains  through  which  she  was  en- 
dowed with  the  divine  countenance?  It 
wasn't  no  cinch--  earnin'  that  slim  ring 
o'  gold  around  her  innocent  little  head! 

Seems  to  me  they  's  more  'n  one  lesson 
to  be  learned  by  them  thet  study  over  the 
story  o'  thet  reverent  and  obedient  little 
maiden  soul.  It  's  capable  o'  bein'  looked 
at  from  every  direction  —  an'  ef  the  pic- 
ture o'  the  little  girl  waitin'  outside  the 
stable  gate  don't  make  us  thess  a  little  less 
critical  o '  the  child  at  our  door,  so  's  we  '11 
be  inclined  to  open  it  to  him,  in  memory, 
ef  we  can't  always  do  it  in  faith,  then 
maybe  we  haven't  studied  it  aright. 


154  SONNY S   FATHER 

That  's  the  way  it  seems  to  me.  Maybe  ef 
I  was  mo'  highly  educated  I  might  see  it 
different,  but  that  's  the  way  it  seems  to 
me. 

To  my  mind,  every  little  orphan  asylum 
child  is  in  a  sense  waitin'  outside  our 
gates  —  an'  the  timid  knock  o'  their  little 
fists  ought  to  keep  us  awake  till  we  invite 
at  least  one  to  come  in. 

Here  comes  Mary  Elizabeth,  Doc'.  Yas, 
daughter,  here  's  the  doctor!  You  say 
she  's  awake,  now?  Go  right  in,  Doc',  an' 
I  '11  wait  out  here  for  you.  No  doubt  the 
fewer  people  she  sees  at  once-t,  the  better. 


Well,  I  thought  you  'd  never  come  back, 
Doctor!  Do  you  know  how  long  you  Ve 
been  in  that  room?  A  hour  an'  seven 
minutes !  Quite  right,  I  'm  shore,  only  I  'm 
youthfully  impatient. 

An'  you  say  it  's  thess  the  same  thing  — 
over-study,  an'  a  disposition  to  under- 
nourish which  must  be  overcome  —  an'  she 
must  be  kep'  in  bed  a  day  or  so,  with  any- 
thing she  calls  for  to  eat  an'  abundance  of 
it  —  an'  no  books,  positive!  Well,  ez 
Sonny  says,  you  're  the  doctor,  Doctor! 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  DOOR        155 

All  she  needs  for  the  present  is  watchful 
care  an'  —  what  's  that?  "  Amusement!  " 
Excuse  me  conterdictin'  a  professional 
man,  Doctor,  but  Madge  ain't  never  needed 
to  be  amused  yet.  She  '11  amuse  the  whole 
crowd,  let  'er  alone.  An'  you  say  you  're 
thinkin'  out  a  scheme  for  'erf  Well,  I  've 
got  patience.  But  did  you  take  notice  to 
Mary  Elizabeth,  Doctor?  I  often  think 
with  gratitude  o'  what  a  mother  she  has 
proved. 

Why,  she  's  motherly  todes  me,  her 
father-in-law,  an'  to  Sonny,  hisself.  I 
reckon  any  good  wife  is  sort  o'  motherly 
to  the  husband  of  'er  choice. 

Thess  look  at  that  hall  hatrack,  Doc',  an' 
tell  me  ef  you  think  I  Ve  got  any  occasion 
to  kick.  No,  Mary  Elizabeth  an'  Sonny, 
they  ain't  no  mo'  attracted  to  "  race  sui- 
cide "  than  you  an'  I  are.  Thess  look  at 
that  collection  o'  hats  —  an'  they  ain't  one, 
or  a  sunbonnet,  there  thet  don't  cover  a 
lively  intelligence,  joyfully  expressed, 
thank  God! 

Yes,  an*  —  what 's  that  you  say?  "An' 
yet  I  long  for  an  orphan  asylum?  "  Not 
much,  I  don't.  Why,  Doc',  they  's  some- 
thin'  in  the  very  name  thet  gives  me  the 


156  SONNY S   FATHER 

cold  shivers !  No,  no !  Ef  half  our  people 
felt  the  way  I  do,  they  would  n't  be  no  sech 
desolate,  homeless  institutions  on  our 
American  soil  ez  an  orphan  asylum. 

They  might  have  to  be  a  few  distributin' 
stations  to  which  suddenly  destituted 
child 'en  could  be  assigned  for  temporary 
care.  Why,  to  my  mind,  a  orphan  asylum 
in  a  Christian  community  o'  rich  an' 
roomy  homes  is  a  sort  o '  national  disgrace. 

How  can  any  institutional  child  have  a 
fair  chance  o'  bein'  fully  human?  Think 
o'  yo'  boy,  our  little  Doc',  yo'  namesake, 
bein'  registered  in  one  o'  them  awful 
books  ez  "  No.  171,"  an'  wendin'  his  lonely 
little  way  every  night  down  the  aisle  be- 
tween the  rows  o'  cold,  white  cots  to  find 
his  number,  with  no  personal  knee  for  his 
' '  Now  I  lay  me  "  —  an '  havin '  every  last 
one  o'  his  cunnin'  little  characteristics 
smoothed  out  flat  by  the  daily  iron  of  insti- 
tutional rules  —  made  exclusively  for  the 
rigid  order  o'  the  institution! 

I  never  will  forgit  the  answer  o'  one  o' 
the  little  asylum  inmates  thet  come  to  a 
Sundayschool  class  I  taught  whilst  I  was 
a  youth.  After  callin'  attention  to  a  num- 
ber o'  Scripture  mottoes  thet  adorned  the 


How  can  any  institutional  child 
have  a  fair  chance  o'  bein' 
fully  human? 


THE    CHILD   AT   THE    DOOR  157 

walls,  I  ast  'er  which  of  all  the  Bible  texts 
she  could  remember  influenced  her  the 
most,  an'  she  chirped  up,  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  "  Keep  off  the  grass!  " 
Poor  little  prohibited  orphan ! 

Sech  child 'en  always  remind  me  o'  the 
poor  little  incubator  chickens  thet  ain't 
never  nestled  under  a  wing.  Ef  we  was 
raisin'  'em  to  sell  by  the  pound,  it  might 
do! 

How  's  that,  Doc'?  You  say  you  Ve 
done  evolved  a  plan  for  little  Madge!  Mh, 
hm!  Say  that  ag'in,  Doctor,  an'  say  it 
slow.  Why,  that  sounds  tremenjus!  You 
say,  it  's  important  to  git  'er  away,  but  not 
so  important  ez  to  turn  'er  mind  away  from 
'erself  —  an'  so  you  propose  to  order  little 
Doc'  away  for  his  health,  an'  to  send 
Madge  along  to  look  after  him,  with  in- 
structions to  live  out  o'  doors  —  "any 
good  place  where  they  's  hills  an'  springs," 
you  say? 

Well,  you  're  a  man  of  inventive  genius, 
Doctor!  An'  I  know  the  identical  Metho- 
dist family  thet  '11  be  glad  o'  their  board- 
money.  But  why  limit  'em  to  two,  Doc? 
Eureky  Springs  has  got  the  name  o'  bein' 
a  sort  o '  fountain  o '  youth  —  what  's  the 


158  SONNY S   FATHER 

matter  with  me  go  in'  along,  an'  exercizin' 
a  grandf atherly  eye  on  'em !  I  could  n  't 
renew  my  youth,  because  I  ain't  never 
parted  with  it,  but  I  might  recover  my  in- 
fancy, all  right.  But  I  '11  promise  to  stop 
imbibin'  before  I  need  infant's  care ! 

Well,  I  '11  be  jiggered !  Shake !  — ' «  be 
jiggered?  '  Yas,  I  '11  be  doggoned!  An' 
I  ain't  swore  sech  a  swear  ez  that  in  thir- 
teen year  —  not  sence  the  little  pitchers 
has  had  their  big  ears  set  for  proper 
speech.  But  this  tickles  me,  down  to  the 
ground !  Go  right  in,  now,  Doc,  an'  consult 
with  Mary  Elizabeth  about  it  —  see  how 
quick  she  can  git  us  ready  to  start!  An' 
fix  the  day. 

You  say  the  responsibility  o'  little  Doc' 
will  keep  Madge's  mind  off'n  'erself  —  an' 
'er  strenuosity  in  f  oiler  in'  him  around  will 
keep  'er  actively  in  the  open? 

An',  what  's  that?    "  Fishin '-tackle ?  " 

Jerooshy !  Why  not !  I  wonder  could  I 
ketch  a  fish  ag'in  at  my  age,  ef  I  was  to 
balance  myself  keepful  on  a  grassy  bluff 
over  a  sedgy  creek  —  with  a  old  bakin' 
powder  box  with  holes  punched  in  the  led, 
full  o'  wrigglin'  bait  beside  me,  an'  a  fryin' 
pan  an'  a  piece  o'  bacon  an'  some  cornmeal 


THE    CHILD   AT   THE    DOOR  159 

an'  coffee  in  the  basket  at  my  elbow, 
propped  ag'in'  the  cedar  knees?  An' 
matches  handy! 

An'  ef  I  was  to  ketch  a  string  o'  goggle- 
eyed  pyerch,  instid  o'  rejoicin'  over  the  re- 
covery o '  my  youth,  would  I  be  ungrateful, 
I  wonder,  an'  start  a-grievin'  for  her  ag'in, 
with  the  old  regret  thet  time  has  begun  to 
heal? 

You  see,  in  our  youth,  that  was  our 
favoryte  debauch —  thess  droppin'  every 
corrodin'  care  an'  startin'  out  equipped  for 
a  day  in  the  open,  an'  many  's  the  time 
we  Ve  come  home  by  star-light,  so  full  o' 
sweet  inflation  an'  gratitude  thet  any  little 
bothers  thet  had  been  weighin'  us  down 
would  seem  to  float  away,  same  ez  thistle- 
down. 

What  's  that  you  say,  Doc '  ?  i '  Is  Madge 
a  cook?  "  Haven't  I  been  tellin'  you  all 
along?  She  's  one  o'  these  ornamental 
cooks,  Madge  is.  Could  n't  do  a  thing  thess 
so,  by  rote,  to  save  'er  life.  It  's  like  the 
Button  eloquence,  practically  applied.  Eic- 
ollec',  I  ast  'er  to  slip  out  in  the  kitchen 
an'  bile  me  an  egg,  one  day,  when  she  was 
about  six,  Dicey  bein'  busy,  an'  what  did 
she  do  but  dye  that  egg  green?  Done  it 


160  SONNY  S   FATHER 

with  peach  leaves  an'  grass,  an'  a  pinch  o* 
sal  sody,  I  believe.  A  thing  like  that  is 
enlivenin',  in  a  little  youngster  o'  six. 

Why,  it  was  our  Madge  thet  built  that 
bridal  couple  on  Amy  Ames's  weddin'  cake, 
Doc'  —  done  it  every  lick  out  o'  her  own 
head,  an'  whipped  up  eggs  an'  sugar! 

No  doubt,  she  '11  have  little  Doc'  an'  me 
eatin'  woods-cooked  corn  dodgers  of  every 
conceivable  shape,  an'  the  fried  fish,  bal- 
anced on  their  tails,  beggin'  to  be  de- 
voured ! 

Ef  you  hurry  an*  git  us  off,  Doc',  we  '11 
be  there  in  time  for  the  dogwood  blos- 
soms —  an'  we  '11  stay  till  the  persimmons 
is  sugary.  I  hate  to  be  impolite  on  my  own 
p'och,  Doctor,  but  why  in  the  kingdom 
come  don't  you  rise  up  an9  go  in  an'  make 
arrangements  with  Mary  Elizabeth  —  an' 
decide  when  we  can  start!  Seems  to  me 
we  're  losin'  time! 


VI 


KEEPING  UP  WITH  THE  PROCES- 
SION 

AS,  Doctor,  ez  you  say,  *  *  Life  is 
a  sort  o'  procession  "  —  an'  we 
either  keep  up  with  it,  or  we 
don't.  Of  co'se,  they  's  leaders 
an'  hangers-on,  an'  the  funny  part  of  it  is 
thet  a  heap  o'  folks  is  vastly  mistaken  ez 
to  which  they  are. 

No  doubt  a  few  o'  these  noisy  auto- 
mobillionaires  thet  whizz  ahead  in  their 
lightnin'  cars  think  they  're  ahead  in  the 
race,  an'  yet,  when  the  century's  story  is 
told,  they  may  not  be  many  o '  their  names 
remembered,  an'  the  man  thet  set  in  dark- 
ness inventin'  their  riotous  vehicles  an' 
handlin'  the  most  murderous  of  all  the 
elements,  why  his  name  may  name  his 
time.  The  real  leaders  ain't  always  in 
the  public  eye. 

But,  ef  I  ain't  mistaken,  I  've  got  a  few 

161 


162  SONNY'S  FATHER 

dear  ones  in  the  ranks,  all  tryin'  to  keep 
step,  God  bless  'em!    An'  that  gives  me 

joy- 
Well,  we  've  had  a  great  time,  Doctor, 
these  three  months !  They  Ve  revealed 
more  to  me  than  I  ever  dreamed  of.  Thess 
a  leetle  over  three  months  —  a  hundred 
days  —  an'  look  at  all  four  of  us! 

I  Ve  often  noticed  thet  time  an'  distance 
seem  to  git  sort  o'  mixed  when  people  go 
in  search  of  health.  One  week  far  away  is 
better  than  ten  aroun'  the  corner. 

Sonny  's  sendin'  Mary  Elizabeth  along 
with  us,  Doctor,  was  a  great  idee.  It  was 
the  finishin'  touch,  not  only  for  her  delight 
over  things,  but  it  relieved  me  of  all  care, 
an*  now,  I  don't  reely  know  what  we  would 
'a'  done  without  'er.  You  see,  Sonny  had 
been  to  New  York  befo',  whilst  he  was  a 
lad,  the  season  he  attended  them  lectures 
an'  visited  Mr.  John  Burroughs  at  his 
farm  in  York  state,  which  is  still  the  most 
important  event  of  his  life,  which  give  him 
his  final  determination  to  f  oiler  in  the  old 
poet's  footsteps,  in  all  humility. 

He  always  has  hoped  to  take  Mary  Eliz- 
abeth some  time,  but  lessen  they  had  went 
on  their  weddin'  trip,  they  ain't  never  been 


KEEPING   UP   WITH  THE   PROCESSION       163 

no  time  since  when  they  could  'a'  went 
without  takin'  a  perambulator  along  —  an' 
that  would  be  awkward,  all  the  way  from 
Simpkinsville  to  New  York. 

Of  co'se,  Mary  Elizabeth,  like  any  stay- 
at-home  mother,  she  shook  her  head  an' 
declared  it  wouldn't  never  do,  an'  what 
would  become  of  this  an '  that  1  But  Sonny, 
he  had  n't  been  keepin'  still  all  those  years 
for  nothin'.  He  had  thess  been  bidin'  his 
time. 

It  seems,  he  had  been  thinkin'  Marthy 
needed  more  responsibility  in  the  house, 
to  develop  her  ability,  an'  less  book- 
study,  an'  Mary  Elizabeth,  she  had  been  on 
the  nest  too  constant  an'  needed  to  shake 
her  feathers  a  little  an'  so  he  figured  thet 
it  would  be  good  for  hen  an'  chicks  for 
her  to  clair  out  for  a  while  an'  they  was  n't 
no  use  wastin'  arguments.  Of  co'se,  Mary 
Elizabeth's  heart  was  divided,  but  little 
Doc'  bein'  so  puny,  why  that  balanced  any 
sentiment  she  might  'a'  had  about  leavin' 
Sonny. 

Of  co'se,  the  trip  hasn't  been  no  ways 
what  you  an '  me  planned.  Renewin '  a  per- 
son's  youth  with  a  fishin'-pole  along  old 
f  amiliar  streams  sounds  very  well  in  books, 


164  SONNY'S  FATHER 

I  know,  but  I  'm  glad  I  was  n  't  brought  to 
face  it.  It  's  like  goin'  back  to  an'  ol' 
homestead  after  many  years.  They  's 
thrills  in  it,  no  doubt,  but  they  ain't  all 
thrills  of  merriment,  an'  I  hadn't  no  mo' 
planned  out  goin'  over  our  ol'  playground 
than  I  commenced  to  have  misgivin's. 

Even  ef  all  the  ol'  companions  could 
show  up,  it  would  be  somethin'  of  a  shock, 
thess  the  way  they  'd  hobble. 

Sonny,  he  knowed  better.  He  always 
had  sense.  Says  he,  "  No,  go  to  a  new 
place  —  an'  see  a  fresh  set  o'  things,"  an' 
he  hadn't  no  mo  'n  spoke  befo'  I  felt  he 
was  right. 

Why,  Doc ',  I  wonder  ef  I  could  ever  give 
you  any  idee  of  my  sensations  when  for 
the  first  time,  I  set  on  the  shore  of  the  ocean 
an'  watched  a  ship  sail  in!  Thess  think 
of  it! 

I  tell  you,  ef  I  'd  been  struck  blind  the 
whole  way,  comin'  an'  goin',  that  one  sight 
would  'a'  paid  me  for  the  benighted  jour- 
neys. 

What 's  that  you  say,  Doctor?  "What 
did  I  enjoy  the  most,  of  the  entire  trip?  ' 

Why,  thess  my  same  ol'  occupation, 
thinkin';  it  don't  take  long  to  answer  that. 


KEEPING   UP   WITH   THE   PROCESSION       165 

Yas,  thinkin',  an'  the  object  which  fur- 
nished the  chiefest  delight  was  the  one 
thing  thet  had  power  to  stop  the  wheels 
for  a  while,  an'  that  was  the  sea.  Yas,  the 
limitless  ocean,  at  night,  in  a  ca'm. 

It  seemed  to  answer  all  my  doubts,  so 
thet  I  did  n  't  seem  to  be  able  to  more  'n 
wonder  an'  give  thanks. 

I  s'pose  this  is  sort  o'  fantastic  talk,  for 
an  ol'  farmer  like  me,  but  you  see,  my  eyes 
had  been  kep'  so  free  of  glorious  sights  in 
nature,  thet  when  the  ocean  loomed  befo' 
my  vision,  I  had  to  rise  the  full  height  at 
one  bound  —  an'  if  I  breathed  for  five  min- 
utes, I  don't  know  it. 

What  's  that  you  say!  "  Mary  Eliz- 
abeth? "  Oh,  she  was  pretty  still  over 
everything.  She  ain't  never  been  a  person 
of  many  words,  you  know.  But  she  '11  be 
able  to  tell  Sonny  an'  the  child 'en  at  home 
a  heap  mo'  statistical  facts  about  the  tides 
an'  the  moon  than  I  will  —  an'  I  don't 
begrudge  it  to  her. 

I  don't  want  to  separate  my  ocean.  An' 
I  hope  the  time  won't  never  come  when  the 
very  remembrance  of  it  won 't  envelope  me 
an'  bring  comfort  to  the  remnant  of  my 
childhood's  faith. 


166  SONNY S    FATHER 

Of  co'se  Somebody  had  to  think  it  all 
out  —  an'  then  make  it.  An'  I  'd  be  willin' 
to  trust  my  eternal  salvation  to  the  One 
thet  conceived  sech  a  thought,  even  if  He 
hadn't  seen  His  way  to  turn  it  loose. 

Mary  Elizabeth,  she  was  satisfied  thet 
the  sea  was  all  right.  She  approved  of  it, 
quick  ez  she  had  give  it  a  ca'm  look-over  — 
an'  then  she  was  ready  for  the  boa'd-walk, 
an'  the  people. 

An'  I  don't  know  but  maybe  she  's  thess 
ez  good  a  wife  for  Sonny  an'  maybe  a  more 
contented  mother  for  his  child 'en  than  ef 
she  had  spent  her  time  at  the  seashore 
writin'  pomes  to  the  ocean.  They  say  most 
sech,  written  on  the  spot,  is  only  fitten  to 
be  washed  out  with  the  tide. 

But  talkin'  about  Mary  Elizabeth,  she; 
declares  thet  this  trip  has  enriched  her  for 
life  —  an'  I  '11  whisper  to  you  thet  a  heap 
of  the  enrichment  she  's  brought  home  in 
her  trunk.  An'  little  Madge,  well,  Madge 
has  kep'  a  diary,  Sutton-fashion,  an'  Mary 
Elizabeth  does  say  thet  they  's  more  'n  one 
po 'try- verse  in  it. 

"  I  'd  thess  ez  lief  she  would  n't  do  that, 
tell  the  truth,  but  ef  she  wants  to,  she  's 
welcome.  Maybe  it  's  the  quickest  way  to 


KEEPING   UP  WITH   THE   PROCESSION       167 

git  it  out  of  her  system,  an'  Sonny  says 
thet  when  a  person  has  sech  a  tendency  ez 
that,  th'  ain't  nothin'  better  'n  to  educate 
'em  thorough,  so  's  they  '11  come  ez  near 
ez  possible  to  knowin'  where  they  're  at. 

You  ricollec',  Doc',  Sonny  tried  his  hand 
at  po'try,  for  a  while,  in  the  matin'  sea- 
son—  an'  pore  little  Mary  Elizabeth,  who 
is  a  better  judge  of  layer-cake  than  what 
she  is  of  po'try,  has  got  it  all  religiously 
preserved. 

It  would  'a'  humiliated  me  to  have 
Sonny  turn  out  a  mejum  poet,  like  the 
Hummell  's  boy,  thet  let  his  hair  grow  that- 
a-way.  But  that  calamity  passed  us  by, 
ez  I  hoped  it  might. 

OP  Mr.  John  Burroughs  —  I  don't  know 
why  I  call  him  old  when  he  *s  sev'al  years 
my  junior,  exceptin'  thet  most  of  my  talk 
about  printed  matter  is  quoted  from 
Sonny,  an'  he  reverences  the  oP  writer's 
gray  hairs.  Ez  I  was  sayin',  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs, he  says  Sonny  is  a  reel  poet  an' 
thet  all  his  prose  books  betray  it.  Now, 
that  pleases  me  —  to  think  of  a  man  havin' 
the  wherewithal  to  resk  makin'  a  blame 
fool  of  'isself  an'  to  keep  sober.  They  's 
character  in  that ! 


168  SONNY S   FATHER 

Ef  a  person  is  a  reel  poet,  I  don't  reckon 
he  could  keep  it  in.  An'  I  feel  shore  Sonny 
has  said  the  same  thing,  in  his  higher  lan- 
guage. I  ricollec'  of  him  sayin'  thet  ef  a 
man  didn't  have  a  chance  to  express  his- 
self,  sech,  f '  instance  ez  cravin'  to  write  an' 
not  knowin'  his  a,  b,  c's,  the  great  pomes 
thet  he  couldn't  utter  would  come  out 
under  his  hand,  ef  they  had  to  be  built  in 
brick  and  mortar.  Now,  that  's  beyond  my 
comprehension,  an'  I  've  sometimes  won- 
dered what  a  pome  done  in  concrete  would 
look  like.  Sonny  says  it  might  take  shape 
ez  a  church,  or  a  bridge,  of  perfection.  He 
even  said  thet  to  plan  some  of  the  big 
cathedrals,  a  man  had  to  be  a  poet. 

I  often  wonder  ef  these  writer-folks  ain't 
liable  to  git  a  leetle  off,  Doctor,  thinkin'  so 
constant  in  one  direction.  It  might  be  like 
leanin'  too  long  one  way  with  the  body. 
Not  thet  I  'm  uneasy  about  Sonny,  for  his 
life  is  too  various  an'  too  human  to  git  far 
out  o'  balance.  An'  then,  nature-books 
sech  ez  he  writes,  why  they  have  almost  to 
be  conceived  in  the  open. 

My  belief  is  thet  they  'd  be  less  crazy 
people  ef  they  stayed  out  o'  doors  more. 

Of  co'se,  these  men  they  call  nature- 


KEEPING   UP   WITH   THE    PROCESSION       169 

fakirs,  they  might  easy  die  of  vitiated  at- 
mosphere, constructin'  their  fantastic 
beasts  by  the  midnight  oil.  I  delight  in 
Sonny's  freckles.  Any  naturalist  ought  to 
be  tanned  good,  an'  I  can't  imagine  a  con- 
scientious jungle-writer  sufferin'  from  in- 
somnious  disorders,  exceptin'  maybe  an 
occasional  nightmare,  from  encounterin' 
wild  beasts. 

But  talkin'  about  fakirs,  why,  the  Jersey 
shore  where  we  Ve  been,  Doctor,  it  's  fairly 
alive  with  'em. 

At  one  place,  we  'd  promenade  down  the 
boa'd-walk,  Mary  Elizabeth  an'  little  Doc', 
an'  Madge  an'  me,  an'  it  would  'a'  sur- 
prised you  to  see  how  I  walked  too,  an* 
we  'd  stop  where  the  East  Indians  waited 
with  their  camels  an'  whilst  I  was  picturin' 
to  myself  the  flight  from  Egyp'  first  thing 
I  knew  I  overheard  Mary  Elizabeth  say 
somethin'  about  "  — the  eye  of  a  needle," 
an'  I  knew  she  was  expoundin'  to  the  chil- 
dren how  impossible  it  would  be  for  a  rich 
man  who  trusted  in  his  riches,  to  enter 
the  kingdom  of  Heaven  —  a  camel  bein' 
about  the  last  thing  you  'd  imagine  goin' 
through  a  needle's  eye.  Of  co'se,  to  the 
little  ones,  this  seemed  like  a  confirmation 


170  SONNY S  FATHER 

of  scripture.  She  wouldn't  miss  sech  a 
statistic  ez  a  hump,  you  know,  not  for 
no  thin'.  She  's  a  great  mother  o'  children. 

Well,  we  'd  stop  an'  look  at  the  camel 
an'  then  we  'd  pass  on  to  the  East  Indian 
fortune-teller,  a  tall  African-complected 
man  with  straight  hair  with  a  red  turban 
on  'is  head  an'  a  gilt  belly-band  around 
'isself.  He  stands  up  right  befo'  you  an' 
passes  pieces  o'  blank  paper  around  an* 
requi'es  everybody  thet  wants  his  fortune 
told  to  write  his  name  secretly  on  the  paper 
an'  hand  it  back.  Well,  he  takes  all  the 
sheets  without  glancin'  at  'em  an'  slips  'em 
into  a  brass  cylinder  which  he  closes,  ma- 
kin'  grimaces  all  the  time,  an'  then  he  lifts 
it  up  before  him,  makin'  passes  over  it  an* 
mumblin',  an'  d'rec'ly  he  stops  an'  takes 
out  the  papers  an'  distributes  'em  ag'in  — 
an'  every  last  one  has  the  person's  fortune 
writ  on  it,  an'  signed  by  hisself  —  all  did 
in  the  dark  tube. 

Mary  Elizabeth,  she  was  so  tickled  over 
it  thet  nothin'  would  do  but  she  must  write 
Sonny's  name  on  one,  an'  git  his  fortune, 
to  take  home,  which  she  done.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  to  tell  the  fakir  thet  she 
was  writin'  a  man's  name,  an'  when  his 


KEEPING   UP  WITH   THE   PROCESSION       171 

come  out,  word  for  word  like  little 
Madge's,  why  she  was  disgusted. 

Little  Doc'  an'  me,  why,  we  didn't  in- 
vest in  the  fortune-tellin'.  He  was  mo' 
tickled  over  the  canary-bird  fortune-tellin', 
an'  he  'd  'a'  spent  all  he  had,  nearly,  thess 
to  see  that  bird  walk  out  an '  pick  up  a '  en- 
velope an'  present  it  to  him  with  his  little 
bill. 

Maybe  I  ought  to  Ve  drawed  the  line 
ag'inst  these  impostures,  but  I  'm  not  ap' 
to  be  severe  in  my  discipline.  Sometimes, 
in  triflin'  things,  it  's  thess  ez  well  for  a 
child  to  find  out  for  'isself  thet  a  thing  is 
a  fake.  It  might  save  'em  mo'  serious 
experiences  in  after  life. 

You  see,  we  could  investigate  all  this 
foolishness  an'  do  any  little  triflin '  shop- 
pin'  an'  remain  in  the  open  air,  most  o' 
the  booths  bein'  open  to  the  sea. 

But  we  spent  hours  every  day,  down  in 
the  sand,  in  a  secluded  spot  we  got  access 
to,  an'  here  little  Doc'  an'  Madge,  too, 
sometimes,  would  take  off  shoes  an'  stock- 
in 's  an'  wade  in  the  salt  wet  sand  —  an', 
of  co  'se,  they  all  but  me  went  into  the  daily 
baths.  I  walked  in,  once't,  down  in  our 
retirement,  clad  in  full,  waist  deep  —  thess 


172  SONNY'S  FATHER 

for  the  experience.  Of  co'se,  I  dressed 
a-purpose  when  I  went  out,  an'  I  knowed 
the  sea  water  would  n't  hurt  me. 

It  was  the  only  moment  in  the  trip  thet 
I  reelized  my  age.  To  think  thet  one  little 
invasion  of  the  deep  would  satisfy  me! 
But  it  did. 

Yas,  the  trip  cost  consider 'ble,  but  it  's 
well  invested.  The  long  still  days  in  the 
woodsy  place  an'  them  memorable  weeks  at 
Atlantic  City,  an'  then  New  York  —  the 
Statue  of  Liberty,  Grant's  Tomb,  Brooklyn 
Bridge,  an'  Central  Park,  an' --well,  all 
of  it.  I  was  disapp'inted  in  some  things, 
but  it  was  my  fault.  The  Museum  of 
Nachel  Hist'ry  which  Sonny  charged  me 
to  show  little  Doc',  never  give  me  much 
pleasure.  I  like  my  birds  alive  an'  dry 
bones  never  appealed  to  my  taste  specially. 
I  suppose,  the  truth  is  I  'm  a  student  of 
life  and  not  of  death. 

But  I  led  little  Doc '  there  one  fine  day  in 
May,  thinkin'  he  'd  never  want  to  come 
away,  but  I  reckon  he  taken  after  me,  for 
whilst  he  took  on  right  smart  over  the 
birds'  eggs,  an'  spent  a  whole  mornin' 
readin'  the  labels  of  new  specimens,  he 
never  wanted  to  go  back.  I  never  asked 


KEEPING  UP  WITH   THE   PROCESSION       173 

why.  But  when  he  preferred  to  play  in 
the  park  an'  feed  live  squir'ls,  why,  I  'd 
provide  the  nuts  for  'im —  an'  that  was 
where  I  done  the  greater  part  of  my  medi- 
tation, whilst  Mary  Elizabeth  an'  Madge 
was  shoppin'  an'  investigatin '  elsewhere. 

Madge  showed  fine  sense  about  her 
pocket-money,  buyin'  keerfully  the  pres- 
ents she  wanted  to  fetch  home.  She  did 
buy  one  turrible  gay  hat,  poor  little 
human  —  one  with  a  red  rooster-head  on 
it,  an'  tail-feathers  sproutin'  out  o'  the 
neck  of  it.  I  felt  alarmed  when  I  first  see 
it,  but  the  streets  o'  New  York  furnished 
so  many  worse  sights  thet  I  see  she  was 
only  follerin'  the  procession,  in  her  own 
little  way.  Some  of  'em  even  wore  parrots 
an'  screech-owls.  No,  I  'm  not  jokin'. 
It  's  God's  truth.  Yas,  an'  I  Ve  seen  liz- 
ards wore  on  hats,  an'  beetles,  an'  the 
shop-winders  full  of  lovely  rag  flowers, 
nachel  ez  life! 

Yas,  little  Doc'.  He  gained  consider 'ble 
in  weight,  too.  You  see,  we  ain't  slep' 
under  no  roof  for  over  three  months,  ex- 
ceptin'  when  we  'd  first  arrive  places  befo' 
they  'd  git  us  fixed  up  out  o'  doors  —  an' 
of  co'se,  in  New  York. 


174  SONNY S   FATHER 

Tell  the  truth,  I  was  most  afeard  to  sleep 
out  doors  in  New  York,  lessen  some  aerial 
terror  was  to  descend  upon  us  from  the 
firmament  ef  we  got  high  enough  to  escape 
the  dangers  of  the  street-levels.  I  s'pose 
it  might  be  sort  o'  luxurious  to  be  robbed 
or  etherized  by  a  professional  burglar  in 
a  flyin'  machine  thet  let  'isself  down  the 
chimbly,  but  I  'd  ruther  deal  with  the  dan- 
gers I  'm  accustomed  to  —  sech  ez  an  occa- 
sional harmless  black-snake  gittin'  into  a 
person's  bed  —  or  wasps  buildin'  where 
it  's  embarrassin'  to  encounter  their  en- 
mity. Or,  even  keepin'  a  lookout  for  nig- 
gers in  watermelon  season. 

These  homely  little  warfares  is  ap '  to  be 
naggin ',  at  times,  but  I  would  n  't  swap  a 
year  of  'em  for  the  experience  of  a  single 
daily  page  of  the  casualties  thet  's  printed 
in  the  New  York  papers.  I  wouldn't, 
reely. 

Yas,  I  like  a  little  town  where  the  people 
play  cards  for  fun  an'  marry  for  keeps  — 
an'  of  co'se,  they  must  be  some  thet  live 
along  that-a-way,  even  in  New  York.  You 
see,  the  good  an'  quiet  folks,  they  ain't  so 
conspicuously  in  sight  ez  some  others. 

But  they  's  days  when,  ef  you  do  read 


KEEPING   UP  WITH  THE   PROCESSION       175 

the  papers,  you  think  of  Sodom  an'  Go- 
morrha  —  that  is,  lessen  you  look  over  the 
edge  o'  yo'  paper.  I  taken  notice  thet  the 
sky-lines  around  the  city  is  punctured  with 
church-steeples,  an'  the  harbor,  in  summer, 
why,  it  's  alive  with  a  perfec'  flotilla  of 
floatin'  hospitals,  filled  with  the  ailin' 
child 'en  of  the  poor,  all  equipped  by  rich 
men.  An '  you  know,  they  opened  the  great 
Museum  of  Art  on  the  poor  man's  holiday 
an'  made  it  a  free  day  —  thess  so  them  thet 
craved  to  view  the  pictures  an'  statures 
could  do  so,  on  the  Sabbath  day.  An'  I 
wish  you  could  see  the  Sunday  crowds! 
All  talkin'  foreign  tongues,  mainly,  no 
doubt  praisin'  America  behind  its  back. 
An'  you  ought  to  view  the  fifty- thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  rhododendrons,  thet  one 
rich  widder  lady  presented  to  the  pub- 
lic park,  where  any  God-forsaken  beggar 
may  look  upon  beauty  an'  benevolence,  an' 
maybe  take  courage. 

Think  of  a  person  of  wealth  keerin'  that 
much  for  the  ol'  woods  wild  growths,  thet 
we  've  known  an'  humbly  loved  all  our 
lives!  An'  the  city  allows  it!  Yas,  an' 
they  tell  me  thet  this  beauty-distributin' 
lady  belongs  to  the  sect  of  predestinated 


176  SONNY S   FATHER 

infant  damnation,  too  —  but  I  reckon 
she  don't  bother  much  about  that  doc- 
trine. 

Or,  ef  she  does,  maybe  she  intends  for 
the  children  o'  the  poor,  so  many  of  which 
die  yearly,  shall  see  the  beauties  of  nature 
here,  befo'  they  go  to  hell,  poor  little 
things !  Anyway,  she  's  lenient  an'  gentle- 
hearted. 

An'  then  there  's  the  "  bread-line." 
Did  n  't  you  never  hear  about  that  ?  Well, 
it  's  another  redeemin'  charity  of  the  tur- 
bulent city.  It  seems  thet  a  good  an* 
brotherly-minded  baker  distributes  free 
loaves  every  night  at  midnight  to  any  hun- 
gry humans  thet  '11  step  into  line  an'  take 
it  —  an '  the  only  credentials  they  have  to 
give  is  the  fact  thet  it  's  worth  their  while 
to  come  an'  stand  an'  wait  —  an'  that 
ought  to  be  enough,  God  knows,  especially 
in  rainy,  cold  nights.  They  's  always  some 
folks  to  criticize  sech  ez  this,  an'  they  do 
say  thet  some  o '  the  men  in  that  bread-line 
ain't  worthy,  like  ez  ef  that  had  anything 
to  do  with  it ! 

They  're  hungry,  an*  that  's  all  they 
claim.  I  'd  hate  for  my  daily  allowance  of 
bread  to  be  measured  by  my  virtues  —  with 


KEEPING  UP  WITH  THE   PROCESSION       177 

my  appetite  for  home-made  rolls,  saturated 
with  sweet  butter. 

An'  that  ain't  all,  Doctor.  They  's  mon- 
uments of  benevolence  everywhere  you 
turn  in  New  York.  There  's  Cooper's 
Union,  give  an'  endowed  by  a  good, 
plain,  industrious  man-o  '-the-people  —  a 
great  stone  buildin'  equipped  an'  endowed 
for  the  education  of  all  sorts  of  artisans 
an'  artists,  free  of  cost.  His  stature  sets 
outside  the  buildin'  —  a  rugged-faced,  no- 
ble old  man  —  an'  with  a  look  of  comrade- 
ship for  the  workin'  people.  If  I  'd  ex- 
pected any  comfort  in  cold  marble,  I  'd  'a' 
shook  that  stature 's  hand. 

An'  they  's  free  wards  in  most  o'  the  big 
hospitals  —  an'  free  scholarships,  every- 
where, to  be  earned  by  diligence.  They  's 
even  places  where  notably  no- 'count  folks 
can  get  free  night's  lodgin',  down  where 
the  poor  is  crowded  so  thick. 

I  Ve  always  had  great  sympathy  for  bad 
people,  myself,  knowin'  my  own  short- 
comin's  an'  how  my  parents  was  to  blame 
for  all  the  good  thet  's  in  me.  Somehow, 
they  always  seem  to  git  left,  the  unfortu- 
nate wicked  do  —  an '  maybe  that  's  the  one 
reason  they  stay  bad. 


178  SONNY  S   FATHER 

Only  five  days  we  remained  in  New  York, 
but  it  seems  like  a  month,  ez  I  look  back. 
It  was  full  of  enlightenment  for  me,  in  mo ' 
ways  than  I  like  to  confess.  They  's  so 
much  good  in  the  worldly-minded  —  an' 
whilst  little  Doc'  an'  me  would  set  down 
in  the  midst  o'  that  wilderness  of  flowers 
in  the  park  on  May  day,  an'  I  watched  the 
butterflies  flittin'  in  the  sun,  rivaled  by 
their  sisters  in  spring  attire  in  the  auto- 
mobiles, lace  parasols  h'isted  an'  feathers 
flyin',  well,  I  felt  fully  resigned  to  butter- 
flies. It  was  all  so  pretty. 

The  one  thing  thet  plegged  me  continual 
in  the  city  was  the  hurry.  An'  when  a  man 
over  eighty  an'  accustomed  to  go  his  own 
gait  is  constan  'ly  ordered  to  ' '  step  lively, ' ' 
why,  he  's  tempted  to  answer  back  -  -  'spe- 
cial when  the  order  comes  in  the  brogue  of 
a  foreign  aspirant.  But  I  kep'  my  tem- 
per —  although  I  'm  free  to  confess  I 
didn't  hustle  none.  I  knowed  enough  to 
reelize  thet  they  was  obligated  to  wait  tel 
I  'd  escape  from  their  cars  in  my  own 
time  —  an'  I  took  it  —  with  Simpkinsville 
composure. 

Did  you  notice  I  fetched  that  word  home, 
Doctor?  Hustle  tickled  my  fancy,  an'  I 


KEEPING   UP  WITH   THE   PROCESSION       179 

adopted  it  fo'with  —  an'  intend  to  try  it  on 
the  mule. 

Thess  think,  I  ain't  been  home  twenty-fo' 
hours  yet,  an'  it  seems  a  week.  It  don't 
seem  nachel,  yet.  Everybody  thet  passes 
the  gate  seems  to  be  waitin'  for  somebody 
to  ketch  up  —  they  saunter  so  slow.  But 
don't  think  I  'm  critical,  Doctor.  I  like  it 
an'  I  'm  that  tickled  to  be  home  again. 
I  'm  thess  a  leetle  bit  sp'iled  by  foreign 
travel,  that  's  all,  but  I  '11  soon  get  attuned 
to  it  ag'in. 

It  's  restful  to  me,  thess  settin'  here  an* 
watchin'  that  ol'  clock  tick  whole  seconds. 
They  's  somethin'  respectable  in  its  lei- 
surely pendulum.  It  don't  hump  itself  for 
nobody,  but  thess  goes  along  with  its  kindly 
admonition  on  the  flight  of  time.  It  seems 
to  invite  industry  an'  preparation,  whilst 
these  numerous  little  fancy  clocks  thet  keep 
up  sech  a  tick-tackin ',  they  're  like  drivers, 
an'  nervous  at  that,  if  they  ain't  delerious. 
Yes,  I  'm  grateful  to  be  home  again.  It  's 
all  so  sweet. 

The  house  looks  like  a  bower  with  all  the 
flowers  thet 's  been  sent  in  —  an'  Sonny 
had  a  lot  o'  surprises  for  us. 

Yas,  ez  I  said,  for  a  stiddy  diet  gimme  a 


180  SONNY'S  FATHER 

quiet  town  where  the  people  play  games  for 
fun  —  an'  marry  for  keeps.  I  never  reel- 
ized  they  was  any  "  r  "  in  divo'ce,  tell  I 
went  to  New  York.  Oh,  yas,  I  know  how  to 
spell  it,  now.  It  was  in  every  day's  spellin'- 
lesson  there  —  an'  sometimes  in  good 
company,  too,  I  'm  grieved  to  say.  Even 
when  they  ain't  no  blame,  it  always  seems 
a  pity  to  me.  Seems  like  ef  they  'd  try 
harder  an'  not  think  so  much  about  it,  they 
might  jog  along  somehow  in  harness. 

Yas,  ez  you  say,  Doc',  life  is  a  sort  o* 
procession,  but  I  Ve  come  to  the  conclusion 
thet  the  real  procession  ain't  always  the 
visible  parade.  An '  the  gait  of  any  part  of 
it  ain't  no  indication  of  the  speed  of  the 
whole. 

Keepin'  up  with  the  procession  here  in 
Simpkinsville  is  quite  different  from 
keepin'  up  with  it  in  New  York.  Why,  they 
has  been  folks  here,  ez  you  know,  thet  en- 
tered with  their  'lectric  motor-cars  an' 
cocktails  an'  flared  around  a  while,  whilst 
some  railroad  scheme  was  pendin',  or  the 
government  was  investigatin'  for  our  min- 
eral wealth  —  an'  I'd  resk  a  guess  thet 
they  'lowed  they  was  leaders  durin'  their 
stay,  an'  I  don't  deny  they  did  make  things 


KEEPING   UP   WITH    THE    PROCESSION       181 

hum,  whilst  the  men  zig-zagged  over  the 
country  an'  their  women  nosed  around 
secretively  buyin'  up  all  our  old  honest- 
made  mahogany  furniture,  which  I  'm 
ashamed  to  say  they  done. 

That  's  why  so  many  o'  these  big  square 
parlors  in  Simpkinsville  is  all  radiant  in 
golden  oak  buffetry  an'  new  plush.  Mary 
Elizabeth,  she  showed  great  fo'ce  of  char- 
acter an'  fo 'sight  durin'  that  period.  I 
ricollec'  thess  ez  well  her  sayin'  thet  ef  all 
them  rich  women  was  buyin'  up  the  delapi- 
dated  an'  rheumatic  furniture,  thet  our 
people  was  eager  to  consign  to  the  attics, 
they  must  be  a  reason.  An'  they  didn't 
git  none  of  ours. 

She  has  got  one  spare  room  —  the  guest 
chamber,  she  calls  it  now  —  thet  is  purty 
showy  an'  new  —  but  the  ol'  heirlooms  is 
stationary  in  our  home.  Mary  Elizabeth 
never  was  nighty  about  things  like  that. 

Still,  she  likes  to  keep  up  with  the  pro- 
cession, ez  she  sees  it,  in  fashion  an'  man- 
ners, an'  I  'm  glad  she  does.  I  called  yo' 
attention  the  other  day  to  them  heathen 
gownds  she  wears,  Ki-mo-nos,  she  calls 
'em,  an'  she  cert'n'y  does  set  'em  off.  But 
a  person  of  my  age  has  got  to  git  used  to  a 


182  SONNY'S  FATHER 

thing  like  that.  It  was  the  longest  time 
befo'  I  could  look  at  her  in  'em  without 
thinkin'  of  "  the  heathen  in  his  blindness," 
an'  I  half -expected  to  see  her  "  bow  down 
to  wood  an'  stone."  It  did  look  that 
idolatrous ! 

Yas,  an'  Sonny,  he  's  took  to  pajamas 
for  bed-style,  an'  Mary  Elizabeth  has  sent 
all  his  oP  night-shirts  to  the  missionary- 
box  —  a  even  swap  with  the  heathen,  I  say. 
I  don'  see  why  they  make  sech  a  to-do 
about  the  pajamas,  though.  They  ain't  no 
mo  'n  child 'en's  ol '-fashioned  bed-drawers, 
cut  without  feet,  an'  wore  with  jackets 
to  match,  cord-an'-tasseled,  consid'ble. 
They  seem  a  little  too  fantastic  to  me,  like 
ez  ef,  ef  I  was  to  go  to  bed  in  'em,  I  'd  ex- 
pect to  dream  about  jockeys  or  circus- 
riders.  They  wouldn't  conduce  to  repose- 
fulness  —  not  in  my  case. 

No,  to  my  mind,  they  's  nothin '  better  to 
sleep  in  than  a  long,  unbleached,  wife-made 
night-shirt,  of  the  orthodox  faith,  without 
bylaws  or  amendments. 

But  I  'm  only  speakin'  for  myself,  an' 
I  Ve  got  enough  thet  she  made  me  to  last 
the  rest  of  my  journey  —  all  with  turkey- 
red  J.  D.'s  cross-stitched  inside  the  collars. 


KEEPING  UP  WITH  THE   PROCESSION       183 

But  I  ain't  prejudyced,  come  to  other 
folks  —  an'  I  take  pride  in  Mary  Eliz- 
abeth's open  mind  for  a  new  thought,  in 
anything. 

Oh,  yas,  she  's  gradually  changed  a  num- 
ber o'  things  in  the  household.  She  sets 
"  center-pieces  "  on  the  table  meal-times, 
an'  she  's  raised  the  grade  of  meal-an- 
nouncement, from  time  to  time,  ez  she  was 
enlightened. 

You  ricollec'  the  years  we  was  sum- 
monsed to  dinner  by  that  ol'  bell  which  I 
dearly  loved  an'  will  resolutely  miss,  all 
my  days  —  the  bell  I  had  made  for  Sonny's 
deef  grandma,  an'  which  was  peremp- 
rory  enough  to  call  the  cows  home.  It  was 
good  an'  hearty  —  seemed  to  announce 
abundance  an '  to  take  appetite  for  granted,, 
although  I  don't  deny  it  was  middlin'  loud,, 
for  an  invitation. 

Well,  she  's  set  that  aside  for  emergen- 
cies, an',  for  a  time,  we  hustled  in  by  a 
silver-plated  call-bell  which  she  picked  out 
of  a  New  York  catalogue,  an'  she  would 
touch  it  mighty  graceful  with  her  ring- 
finger,  Mary  Elizabeth  would,  an'  she  does 
yet,  endurin'  of  a  meal,  for  relays  of  hot 
waffles  or  fried  chicken,  but  — 


184  SONNY'S  FATHER 

Well,  we  had  thess  about  got  used  to  the 
call-bell,  when  that  heathen  Chinee  come 
th'ough  here  a  year  ago  thess  befo'  Christ- 
mas, when  everybody 's  bars  of  prudence  is 
down;  an'  he  carried  a  bankrup'  stock  of 
carved  idols  an '  things.  Did  I  say  * '  bank- 
rup' stock  '"?  That  word  should  'a'  been 
"  bankrupting "  for  it  thess  cleaned  me  out 
o '  cash.  Mary  Elizabeth,  she  showed  some 
excitement,  as  she  spent  all  she  had  an' 
borrowed  of  me,  first  time  in  'er  life.  It 
tickled  me  to  have  her  do  it,  too.  I  like  a 
weakness  for  purty  things  —  in  a  prin- 
cipled woman. 

Well,  sir,  she  laid  in  a  lot  o'  stuff,  but 
her  chief  purchase,  after  them  ki-mo-nos, 
was  that  set  o'  Chinese  gongs  which  you 
an'  I  have  ambled  in  to  dinner  by  for  the 
last  year,  although  I  doubt  ef  you  took 
notice.  You  see,  I  'd  always  foller  the 
heathenish  thing  up  with  a  Christian  grace 
quick  ez  I  could.  But  it  was  ornamental 
an*  musical.  Three  gongs  suspended,  one 
above  the  other,  by  a  green  cord  an'  tassel, 
an*  you  'd  sound  all  three  simultaneous,  by 
drawing  a  pethy  drumstick  down  'em,  with 
one  stroke. 

The  child 'en  would  always  scramble  to 


When  that  heathen  Chiiiee  come  th'ough. 


KEEPING  UP  WITH  THE  PROCESSION       185 

see  who  could  git  in  to  ring  'em  first.  Well, 
it  did  seem  like  that  might  'a'  remained  the 
top  notch  of  style  but  she  's  got  them  gongs 
put  out  o'  sight  now  in  her  curio  cabi- 
net. 

What's  that?  "  A  curio-cabinet?  " 
Why,  a  curio-cabinet,  it 's  —  it  's  a  sort  o ' 
private  show-case  filled  with  odds  an'  ends 
on  which  you  seem  to  miss  the  price-tags. 
First,  she  used  to  put  the  child 'en's  Easter 
eggs  in  it,  an'  the  family  daguerreotypes 
stood  open  in  a  line,  but  I  take  notice 
thet  sence  the  child 'en  has  been  comin' 
home  f'om  boa 'din'  school  an'  visitin' 
their  schoolmates,  in  Little  Eock  an' 
Louisville  an'  Kichmond,  why  every- 
thing has  been  banished  from  the  cabi- 
net but  high-class  junk  —  an'  it's  all 
right. 

Well,  she  's  hung  them  heathen  dinner- 
gongs  in  there  now,  an'  she  '11  take  'em  out, 
of  a  hot  day,  when  comp'ny  comes,  to  make 
conversation. 

An'  so  —  what  's  that,  Doctor?    "  How 
do  we  git  our  summons  to  meals,  now?  ' 
Tell  the  truth,  I  'm  most  ashamed  to  tell 
you,  Doc'.    I  'm  'feard  you  '11  laugh.     It 
all  comes  f'om  boa 'din '-school.    The  girls, 


186  SONNY S  FATHER 

they  're  always  the  pioneers  in  style.  They 
fetch  in  the  reforms. 

Well,  the  latest  thing  in  high  life,  so  it 
seems,  is  what  they  call  "  noiseless  serv- 
ice," an'  so  we  have  a  word-o '-mouth  per- 
nouncement,  did  with  awful  solemnity. 
Mary  Elizabeth,  she 's  got  Mirandy, 
Dicey 's  youngest,  so  she  can  dike  out  at  a 
moment's  notice  in  full  regimentals,  a  sort 
o'  doll  night-cap  twisted  on  her  head  an'  a 
white  apron  on,  an'  she  '11  step  in  sight  an', 
without  no  curtsey  nor  nothin',  she  '11  per- 
nounce:  "  Dinner's  served!  "  thess  so,  no 
mo',  no  less,  which,  bein'  interpreted, 
means  thet  it  ain't  served  but  will  be,  quick 
ez  the  percession  files  in.  An'  like  ez  not, 
when  we  git  there,  they  won't  be  a  morsel 
o1  victuals  in  sight. 

You  may  be  surprised,  Doctor,  but  do 
you  know,  I  ruther  like  the  progression, 
for  a  lot  o'  growin'  children.  They  're 
takin'  flight,  now,  one  by  one,  for  school 
and  college,  an'  that 's  the  beginnin'  of  the 
breakin'  up  o'  the  nest,  an'  I  'd  hate  for 
any  one  of  'em  to  show  up  ez  greenies  when 
they  finally  go  f  o  'th. 

Fashions  all  change  with  the  clock,  any- 
how, an'  many  o'  the  ol'-time  customs  thet 


KEEPING   UP   WITH   THE   PROCESSION       187 

seemed  fixed  in  common-sense,  is  thess  ez 
fallacious  ez  the  new  ones  thet  we  're  too 
quick  to  resent. 

In  my  boyhood  days,  the  tables  of  hos- 
pitality was  heaped  with  all  sorts  of 
victuals,  so  thet  a  visitor  felt  surrounded 
by  the  fat  o '  the  land.  Now,  the  pendulum 
is  swung  the  other  way,  an'  even  at  ban- 
quets the  table  is  destitute  of  nourish- 
ment—  an'  profuse  with  flowers  an'  orna- 
ments. An'  sech  expressions  ez  "  groanin' 
boards  "  is  clean  gone  out  o'  fashion  — 
even  with  our  young  lawyers. 

An'  when  you  think  of  it,  for  food  which 
has  to  be  partaken  of  in  rotation,  why,  the 
new  way  is  most  sensible.  But  new  fash- 
ions don't  faze  me. 

I  'd  answer  any  summons  to  a  good  din- 
ner. I  'd  even  be  willin'  to  attemp'  to  go 
in  by  handsprings,  ef  they  requi'ed  it  of 
me.  Or  I  'd  submit  to  surgery  an'  have 
my  front  coat-tails  amputated  to  match 
Sonny's  last  achievement,  although  I  'd 
feel  like  a  dejected  chimbly-s waller  in  one 
o'  them  swaller-tails. 

No,  I  ain  't  never  pinned  my  faith  to  ways 
an'  manners.  Of  co'se,  in  all  this  recon- 
struction, they  's  some  things  I  miss,  but, 


188  SONNY S   FATHER 

dear,  dear!  How  much  I  Ve  got  in  ex- 
change ! 

An'  the  things  lackin'  in  the  new  order, 
they  're  so  triflin'  --  sech  ez  havin'  my  pie 
in  sight  all  durin'  a  meal.  Somehow,  it 
helped  me  to  gauge  things.  I  've  told  Mary 
Elizabeth  thet  her  keepin'  the  pie  in  seclu- 
sion would  often  cost  her  a  second  slice,  ez 
I  couldn't  make  allowances  for  all  thick- 
nesses. 

I  like  to  quiz  her,  thess  to  witness  that 
set  o'  dimples  she  turns  out.  Ain't  it  won- 
derful, Doctor,  the  way  a  mother  can  be- 
queath a  gift  to  numerous  child 'en,  an'  not 
lose  none  of  it,  herself! 

Now,  them  dimples,  Mary  Elizabeth  has 
bestowed  'em,  without  diminution,  on  two 
o'  the  girls,  an'  her  gracious  way  with 
people  on  all  three  —  all  the  time  growin' 
'erself  in  womanly  grace,  an'  her  own 
dimples  even  deepenin'  ez  the  years  pass, 
an '  she  stoutens  a  little. 

Why,  they  was  n't  a  highfalutin'  woman 
thet  we  encountered  in  our  travels  thet  cast 
her  in  the  shade  for  manners  an '  sweetness, 
not  a  one. 

Not  goin',  Doctor?  Yas,  I  know  you 
thess  dropped  in  to  welcome  us,  this  first 


KEEPING   UP  WITH   THE   PROCESSION       189 

day,  but  you  mus'  come  ag'in,  when  I  git 
all  my  experiences  classified.  Then  I  '11  be 
able  to  talk. 

It  cert'n'y  is  good  to  be  back.  Thess  see 
puss  rub  'er  ol'  back  ag'inst  my  leg  an' 
purr  —  an'  the  dogs  —  Oh,  no,  I  ain't 
been  down  to  the  stable,  yet.  I  '11  take  to- 
morrer  for  that. 

Step  here,  Doc'.  Lemme  whisper  to  you. 
I  ain't  opened  my  head  about  Sonny's  las' 
book  —  an'  us  seein'  it  bought  at  the  book- 
stand in  New  York.  I  can't  speak  about 
it  yet.  It  stops  my  th'oat.  But  nex'  time 
you  come  —  Wouldn  't  it  be  funny,  Doctor, 
ef,  when  the  whole  story  is  told,  our  little 
home-grown  Sonny  thet  divides  his  time 
betwixt  field  an'  woods  an'  home  study, 
tendin '  strictly  to  duty  an '  lovin '  it,  — 
wouldn't  it  be  funny  ef  he  should  turn  out 
to  be  an  unconscious  leader  in  life's  pro- 
cession. 

Th'  ain't  nothin'  further  from  his  ambi- 
tion, I  know  —  an'  maybe  that  's  one  rea- 
son I  think  about  it. 


VII 


GOD  for  sore  eyes  you  are,  Doc- 


for  good.  I  was  thess  a-thinkin' 
yesterday  thet  like  ez  not  you 
was  ketchin'  on  to  the  new  idee  an'  givin' 
me  absent  treatment! 

That  's  right !  Hang  up  yo'  hat  an'  drop 
in  that  rocker  an'  give  me  some  account  o' 
yo'self!  No  absent  treatment  in  mine, 
Doc' --not  from  you!  They  might  be 
some  doctors  I  'd  welcome  it  from,  but  I  'm 
too  fond  o'  yo'  conversational  powers 
which  help  me  ez  much  ez  yo'  physic. 

D'you  reelize  thet  you  ain't  set  foot 
here  sence  thess  after  our  return  from  our 
travels  —  seventeen  days  ago  —  an '  me 
thess  bustin'  to  confide  all  our  escapages  to 
yo'  sympathetic  ear.  You  see,  you  're  the 
only  man  in  the  county  thet  's  got  a  X-ray 
on  my  conscience  —  an'  when  I  know  you 

190 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  191 

discern  foreign  things  floatin'  'roun'  in  it, 
why,  I  like  to  have  a  chance  to  explain 
how  they  got  there.  Seems  sort  o'  small 
of  a  man  o'  yo'  size  to  take  advantage 
of  a  family's  health  an'  make  hisself 
scarce.  I  always  enjoy  company  mo'  when 
I  'm  well  than  when  I  'm  sick,  an'  yet  I 
don't  no  sooner  git  down  in  the  mouth  than 
you  come  a-prowlin'  round  with  a  pill  and 
powder  expression  on  yo'  face. 

S'pose  you  've  been  out  to  the  Simp- 
kinses  —  to  see  ef  the  flutes  is  all  prim  in 
the  old  ladies'  caps.  They  's  somethin' 
mighty  plea  sin'  in  the  crystalizin'  effect 
of  old  age  in  some.  Now,  them  old  maiden 
sisters  ain't  changed  a  ioto  in  any  con- 
ceivable way  for  twenty-five  year,  an'  here 
I  'm  their  senior  by  nearly  a  year  an'  ez 
variable  ez  a  weather-vane  an'  ez  open  to 
conviction  ez  ever.  Sometimes  I  think  it  's 
my  continual  association  with  childhood, 
that  an'  my  natural  curiosity  about  every 
new  thing  thet  turns  up. 

I  s'pose  ef  they  knowed  about  all  our 
New  York  carousals,  they  'd  be  turrible 
scandalized,  but  they  '11  never  know.  We 
bought  'em  both  nice  little  presents  from 
the  north,  exactly  alike,  of  co'se,  they  bein' 


192  SONNY S   FATHER 

twins,  a  pair  o'  revised  hymn-books  in  big 
print.  Mary  Elizabeth  did  crave  to  fetch 
'em  a  pair  o'  new  style  capes.  She  says 
them  dolman  shapes  seem  to  confine  their 
elbows  an'  yet,  she  hesitated  to  do  it,  they 
bein'  heirlooms  of  cut  jet. 

To  my  mind,  antiquated  fashions  set  be- 
comin'  on  the  folks  they  Ve  grown  old 
with.  I  would  n  't  never  Ve  varied  my 
clo'es  the  way  I  ha\^  excep'n  for  these 
growin'  child 'en.  I  reckon  they  'd  be 
humiliated  to  have  me  dressed  the  way  I  'd 
feel  most  at  home  in,  whilst  I  'd  take  es- 
pecial delight  in  riggin'  out  like  a  cockatoo, 
ef  it  give  them  pleasure. 

But  I  keep  a-talkin'  an'  don't  tell  you 
what  's  on  my  mind.  I  want  you  to  see 
New  York,  ez  much  ez  I  can  present  to  you, 
th'ough  my  old  eyes  —  an'  some  of  it  is  so 
dazzlin'  thet  I  feel  like  ez  ef  you  must  see 
it  shinin'  th'ough  me. 

There  's  that  opera,  now  —  what  's  that 
you  say?  "  Did  we  go  to  the  opera?  ' 
Ain't  I  tellin'  you  about  it,  ez  fast  ez  I  can? 
Yas,  we  did,  an'  my  private  opinion  is  thet 
we  seen  an'  heerd  the  most  corrupt  oper- 
atic performance  thet  ever  was  looked  at 
by  a  set  o'  Christian  people. 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  193 

You  see,  Sonny,  he  charged  Mary  Eliza- 
beth to  see  everything  she  had  been  inter- 
ested in  by  hearsay,  an'  sence  we  've  had 
that  talkin'  machine,  why  the  operatic 
singers  is  all  household  friends,  so,  she 
nachelly  inclined  to  the  opera,  an'  she  con- 
sulted me,  with  all  due  respect  an'  timidity, 
an'  I  advised  her  to  take  a  newspaper  an' 
pick  out  the  most  correct-soundin'  opera- 
play  they  advertised,  which  she  done.  In 
fact,  she  an'  me,  we  picked  it  out  together. 

You  see,  most  o'  the  opera-singers  is 
these  fureigners  with  sort  o'  heathenish 
names,  an'  the  parts  they  play  is  open  to 
criticism,  but  when  she  come  to  Mary  Gar- 
den, why,  we  both  seized  upon  it.  Says  she, 
"  Now,  that  's  a  good  American  name." 
Mary  always  does  seem  sort  o '  saintly,  an ' 
a  garden,  somehow  it  put  us  in  mind  o '  the 
garden  of  Eden.  So  we  picked  her  out 
that-a-way,  an'  then  when  we  see  she  was 
engaged  in  a  Bible  play,  why  our  decision 
was  complete. 

The  play  was  entitled  Salome,  you  ricol- 
lec'  the  daughter  of  Herodias,  an'  tell  the 
truth,  we  both  felt  like  ez  ef  we  was  goin' 
to  a  religious  service.  I  got  out  my  New 
Testament,  an'  we  read  the  fo'teenth 


194  SONNY  8   FATHER 

chapter  o'  Matthew,  all  about  how  she 
danced  befo'  the  king,  an'  we  discussed 
the  paganism  of  the  ancient  times,  an'  we 
resolved  to  go  with  reverent  hearts  to  see 
the  play  played,  an'  half  doubtful  whether 
it  was  right  to  put  such  holy  subjects  on  a 
theatre-stage. 

Well,  that  was  the  sperit  in  which  we 
went,  but,  ez  i  told  you  at  the  beginnin ',  ef 
I  *m  any  jedge  of  corruption,  that  so-called 
Bible  opera-play  is  the  limit.  An'  the  pore 
misguided  girl  thet  does  the  part  of 
Salome,  well,  the  truth  is,  I  don't  think 
I  'm  competent  to  discuss  it. 

Of  co'se,  she  was  in  a  manner  obligated 
to  misbehave  to  the  extent  of  rousin'  the 
old  king  to  all  sorts  o'  brash  vows,  an'  it 
may  have  seemed  necessary  for  her  to  be 
about  half  stripped,  to  show  them  ser- 
pentine motions,  but  we  was  unprepared 
for  sech  exposure. 

Of  co'se,  the  words  bein'  all  in  French, 
an*  sung  at  that  which  obscures  their 
meanin'  still  more,  we  couldn't  be  shore 
but  maybe  they  was  in  a  manner  explana- 
tory. But  ef  the  words  matched  her  con- 
duct, the  whole  thing  was  consider 'ble  out 
o '  the  way.  I  felt  like  ez  ef  it  might  be  my 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  195 

duty  to  rise  an'  forfeit  them  five  dollar 
seats,  an'  lead  Mary  Elizabeth  out  into  the 
fresh  air  —  that  is,  the  best  air  we  could 
git,  in  New  York. 

But  I  didn't.  I  'd  glance  at  her  every 
little  while,  an'  she  seemed  so  untouched 
by  it  all,  I  thought,  like  ez  not,  the  unreality 
of  the  singin'  conversation  an'  the  over 
wrought  behavior  of  everything  in  sight 
would  likely  make  it  like  a  dream  to  her  — 
an'  so  we  set  it  out.  An'  now,  I'm  glad  we 
did. 

They  thess  took  the  Bible  narration  ez  a 
stake  to  play  around,  an'  they  wove  licen- 
tiousness into  it,  right  an'  left.  F' in- 
stance, they  tried  to  prove  by  visual  per- 
ception thet  the  girl,  Salome,  had  fell  in 
love  with  John  the  Baptist,  at  first  sight, 
an'  her  askin'  for  his  head  was  for  spite, 
at  his  rejection.  He  cert'nly  did  act  a 
perfec'  gentleman  when  she  fairly  thowed 
'erself  at  him.  He  was,  to  my  mind,  the 
only  one  thet  reely  looked  his  part.  I  'd 
'a '  knowed  John,  anywhere,  not  only  by  his 
raiment  of  camel's  hair  an'  the  leather 
girdle,  but  his  look  o'  the  wilderness  an' 
the  warnin'  voice,  all  that  was  strictly 
scriptural.  An'  the  scenery  of  the  play, 


196  SONNY S  FATHER 

why  that  was  reely  worth  the  entrance 
money  —  all  the  grandeur  of  the  Eastern 
court,  an'  the  high  color  which  did  n't  have 
to  be  translated. 

An 'that ' l  dance  o '  the  seven  veils, ' '  why, 
ef  it  had  'a'  been  danced  by  a  little  child, 
I  'd  say  it  was  one  o'  the  most  bewilderin' 
performances  in  the  world.  She  shore  is 
supple  in  the  hinges,  Mary  Garden  is,  an' 
she  must  'a'  had  consider 'ble  drillin'  to  be 
able  to  fling  them  veils  exact,  every  time,  a 
veil  bein'  about  ez  unmanageable  a  missile 
ez  a  person  could  try  to  throw  at  a  mark. 

I  always  liked  a  good  game  o'  skill,  an' 
I  might  Ve  got  over  them  seven  veils,  ef 
she  had  n't  acted  so  scandalous  with  John. 
An' --what  you  say,  Doc"?  "  How  about 
the  audience?  " 

Well,  I  don't  know  ez  the  audience 
showed  much  mo'  reticence  than  what 
Mary  did,  in  a  different  way.  It  was  a 
great  sight,  that  immense  half -moon  o' 
chairs  facin'  the  stage,  all  occupied  by 
radiantly  shinin'  ladies,  mostly,  all  mo'  or 
less  stripped. 

"  Respectable?  "  you  say?  Why,  shore, 
that  is,  they  was  classed  so  —  not  only  re- 
spectable an'  wealthy,  but  high  class,  but  — 


-• 


An'  so  we  set  it  out.     An'  now,  I'm  glad  we  did. 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  197 

lean  over  here  a  minute,  Doc',  I  can't  speak 
this  out  loud,  lessen  Mary  Elizabeth  might 
git  wind  of  it,  but  I  want  to  say  to  you, 
both  ez  a  friend  an'  family  physician,  thet 
whilst  I  set  there,  in  that  five  dollar  or- 
chestral seat,  an'  borried  Mary  Elizabeth's 
little  telescope  an'  surveyed  that  scenery 
of  ladies  occupyin'  the  front  row  of  stalls 
right  out  in  the  glare  of  a  thousand  electric 
lights,  it  seemed  to  me  I  'd  never  seen  so 
many  nursin'  mothers  together,  in  my  life. 

I  ain't  disposed  to  criticize  an'  I  won't 
say  they  was  intentionally  brazen  about  it. 
It  might  'a '  been  f orgetfulness,  or  it  might 
'a'  been  conformity  to  Parisian  style. 
Mary  Elizabeth,  she  seemed  to  attribute  it 
to  Paris,  an'  she  says  they  do  say  the 
Paris  rule  for  functional  dresses  is  "  the 
fuller  the  scanter,"  in  other  words,  "  the 
higher  the  style,  the  lower  the  cut." 

Of  co'se,  in  all  sech  ez  this,  I  'd  defer  to 
the  ladies  theirselves,  every  time. 

Mary  Elizabeth,  I  could  see  thet  she  was 
mo'  scandalized  than  what  I  was  which  was 
nachel  enough.  A  person  feels  for  her  own 
sex.  An'  I  did  n't  have  no  occasion  to  feel 
any  too  vainglorious  about  mine,  neither, 
my  pride  in  John's  circumspection  bein' 


198  SONNY'S  FATHER 

over-balanced  by  my  shame  in  King  Herod, 
the  Tetrarch. 

Any  ol'  man  turned  fool  over  a  girl  is  a 
humiliatin'  spectacle,  an'  I  wish  it  was 
rarer  'n  what  it  is.  They  ain't  no  better 
way  for  an  ol'  man  to  expose  his  decripi- 
tude  than  by  contrast,  an'  yet,  it  's  hard 
for  a  man  in  love  to  git  far  enough  from 
his  own  folly  to  git  any  reasonable  view 
of  'isself. 

No,  we  didn't  take  the  child 'en,  not  to 
that.  But  Mary  Elizabeth  took  Madge  to  a 
number  o '  matinee  performances,  to  verify 
the  Victor  machine's  performances.  An' 
we  all  heard  Harry  Lauder  sing,  in  his 
side-pleated  skirt  an'  bare  legs.  I  had  to 
supply  mountain  scenery  out  o'  my  ol' 
head  to  make  him  appear  allowable. 
We  Ve  got  sev'al  pictures  of  Highlanders 
at  home  here,  an'  they  're  all  woods-sur- 
rounded. You  see  Madge  is  musical  an' 
Mary  Elizabeth,  she  never  forgot  it. 
She's  had  her  voice  tried  —  an'  they 
bought  some  new  records  —  an'  I  reckon 
they  's  some  ambitious  plans  bein'  hatched 
out  betwixt  her  an'  her  mother. 

When  I  heerd  the  reel  singers,  Doc',  an' 
reelized  the  exactitude  of  the  mechanical 


ABSENT   TREATMENT  199 

reproductions,  I  tell  you,  it  set  me 
a-thinkin'.  All  that  musical  an'  emotional 
exactitude  reproduced  by  the  narrow  path- 
way of  a  needle !  Sech  ez  that  makes  me 
almost  sorry  I  'm  old.  It  seems  to  me 
we  're  on  the  ticklish  verge  of  the  full 
vision  an'  I  'd  like  to  be  here  for  the  revela- 
tion. 

You  know,  we  come  home  partly  by  sea, 
Doc',  from  New  York  to  New  Orleans,  an' 
the  rest  o '  the  way  by  the  Southern  Pacific 
an'  Iron  Mountain,  an'  what  I  have  n't  had 
a  chance  to  observe  ain't  worth  mentionin'. 

But  the  wireless  telegraph,  that,  to  me, 
is  the  century's  achievement  —  so  far. 
You  never  know  what  some  student 
workin'  in  retirement  has  discovered  over 
night.  They  're  like  patent  medicines  an' 
mortgages  —  inventors  are.  They  work 
while  you  sleep! 

But  the  WIRELESS ! 

Think  o'  bein'  in  mid-ocean  an'  gittin' 
messages  addressed  to  the  different  pas- 
sengers from  Squedunk  an'  Moravia,  an* 
no  visible  disturbance  o'  the  air,  even! 

The  Wireless  man,  aboa'd  ship,  he  an' 
me,  we  got  to  be  great  chums,  an'  he  all  but 
adopted  little  Doc'.  You  see,  electricity  is 


200  SONNY  S   FATHER 

a  large  part  of  our  table  conversation, 
sence  the  boys  has  been  comin'  along. 
An'  these  child 'en  have  got  all  sorts  o' 
electric  contrivances,  bells  an'  telephones, 
all  about  the  place.  Half  the  trees  in  our 
woods  is  mo'  or  less  equipped  with  wires 
an'  they  ain't  a  tree-house  nowhere  but  has 
its  "  system  "  in  it,  for  some  sort  of  ex- 
periment or  harmless  deviltry. 

Well,  it  seems  thet  this  man  was  n't  used 
to  sech  child 'en  an'  he  was  inclined  to  rate 
little  Doc'  ez  a  progidy,  tel  I  told  'im  about 
his  older  brother  an'  his  pa. 

It  seems,  Doc',  thet  they  thess  turn  out 
messages  promiscuous,  an'  only  the  prop- 
erly attuned  machines  can  ketch  'em.  Why, 
right  now,  whilst  you  an'  me  are  settin' 
here,  the  air  must  be  filled  with  live  mes- 
sages rushin'  in  all  directions,  from  Maine 
to  ships  in  the  Pacific,  or  Hong  Kong  to 
Key  West,  an'  even  whilst  they  fairly 
tickle  our  ears,  we  don't  reelize  'em,  be- 
cause we  ain't  adjusted  to  'em. 

I'd  like  to  focus  what  little  mind  I  Ve 
got  left  on  the  production  of  automatic  re- 
ceivers —  receivers  thet  would  ketch  all 
thet  was  goin',  or,  at  least,  all  thet  was 
fitten  for  us.  That  would  come  near  the 


ABSENT   TREATMENT  201 

attainment  of  divine  power  —  an'  my  be- 
lief is  thet  it  's  comin'.  They  've  dispensed 
with  the  wires  an'  the  nex'  thing  will  be 
dispensin'  with  the  machines  —  an'  by 
keepin'  in  tune  with  the  infinite,  we  '11  be 
enabled  to  discern  the  currents  of  love  an' 
affection  from  hearts  in  accord  with  ours, 
not  only  on  earth  but  in  Heaven.  To  my 
mind,  that  '11  be  the  dawnin '  of  the  Perfect 
Day. 

He  was  a  polite  young  feller,  that  Wire- 
less, an'  mighty  patient  with  my  slow  mind. 
I  learned  mo'  of  him  in  them  five  days  at 
sea  than  I  'd  imbibe,  settin'  here  on  my 
loved  po'ch,  in  ten  year  with  yo'  visits  so 
sca'ce  —  that  is,  mo'  specified  knowledge. 

The  sweet  lessons  of  full  an'  tranquil 
life  have  come  to  me  here,  an'  I  wouldn't 
exchange  it  —  but  I  rejoice  to  Ve  had  this 
fresh  illumination.  I  give  the  young  man 
one  o'  Sonny's  books,  a  signed  one  I  hap- 
pened to  have  aboa'd,  an'  you  'd  'a'  been 
proud  to  witness  his  delight. 

Why,  he  knows  all  about  our  Sonny. 
An'  when  he  found  out  thet  he  was  little 
Doc's  father,  you  should  'a'  seen  him. 
Nothin'  the  little  feller  could  'a'  said 
would  'a'  surprised  him,  then. 


202  SONNY'S  FATHER 

What  's  that  you  say?  "  I  promised 
to  tell  you  about  seein'  Sonny's  books  on 
sale?  "  Sure,  I  did.  Seen  people  come  up 
an'  buy  'em,  too,  an'  never  let  on.  The 
first  time  we  saw  that  was  at  the  Waldorf. 
"  Did  we  go  to  the  Waldorf?  "  We  've 
been  to  New  York,  I  tell  you,  Doc'  —  to 
New  York,  with  Mary  Elizabeth  ez  pilot, 
aided  an'  abetted  by  Sonny,  eggin'  'er  on 
by  every  mail  to  see  the  last  sight. 

Yas,  we  put  up  at  the  Waldorf  over 
night,  registered  in  the  office  —  I  thess  put 
down  my  initial  there.  I  didn't  want  to 
humiliate  Sonny  by  writin'  myself  down 
"  Deuteronomy  Jones,  Sr."  Although  it  's 
an  old  name,  it  seems  to  have  a  sort  o' 
conspicuosity  about  it  —  so,  I  thess  signed 
"  D.  Jones  an'  family." 

Yas,  we  registered  an'  took  a  suite  — 
that  word  's  pernounced  sweet,  Doctor. 
We  took  a  sweet,  I  say,  an'  went  up  in  it 
in  the  alleviator,  eleven  floors  —  an'  we 
stayed  over  night,  an'  the  two  youngsters, 
they  punched  the  buttons  in  the  wall  for 
every  conceivable  thing  —  an'  the  rest  of 
'em,  they  put  their  shoes  out  at  night  to  be 
shined,  all  but  me.  No,  I  wouldn't  do  it. 
I  was  like  the  stranger  in  the  castle  who 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  203 

was  afeerd  to  resk  settin'  out  his  shoes, 
lessen  they  'd  be  gilded.  An'  besides,  I 
never  want  nobody  else  polishin'  my  boots. 
I  like  my  own  spit. 

Well,  we  set  in  the  Turkish  room,  an'  we 
sauntered  amongst  the  pa'ms,  an'  we  took 
that  day's  dinner,  at  supper-time,  in  the 
main  dinin'-room,  all  four  of  us  at  a  little 
table  together. 

Then  Mary  Elizabeth,  she  'lowed  it 
would  be  nice  for  each  one  to  order  what 
he  wanted,  but  they  all  lingered  in  indeci- 
sion an'  the  list  was  long  an'  only  par- 
tially intelligible.  So,  finally,  she  see  a 
mighty  nice,  well-behaved  lookin'  party  of 
four  at  the  table  catticorned  away  from  us, 
an'  they  had  thess  give  their  order,  an'  so 
she  says,  says  she  to  the  waiter,  "  Thess 
duplicate  their  order  for  us,  please,  an' 
fetch  it  ez  soon  ez  you  can." 

They  was  a  mighty  rigorous  lookin' 
crowd  for  style,  an'  I  couldn't  help  ap- 
plaudin'  Mary  Elizabeth's  wit  in  seem' 
thess  what  sech  a  party  of  average  rich 
New  Yorkers  would  order  for  a  ordinary 
dinner. 

Well,  I  wush-t  you  could  'a'  seen  that 
dinner,  Doctor!  I  won't  pertend  to  de- 


204  SONNY  S   FATHER 

scribe  it  to  you,  for  it  's  beyond  my  vocab- 
ulary. I  know  it  cost  thirty-one  dollars  an' 
thirty  cents  —  an'  I  ricollec'  Mary  Eliza- 
beth, she  'lowed  afterwards  thet  she  did  n  't 
see  no  trace  o'  the  thirty-one  dollars  but 
she  felt  like  thirty  cents ! 

Yas,  I  know,  it  does  seem  a  fabulous 
price,  but  you  see,  they  was  tarrapin  for 
four,  for  one  thing,  an'  high-class  duck  — 
for  four  —  duck  with  the  blood  streamin' 
out  of  it  so  thet  you  had  to  hurry  an'  mix 
it  with  the  red  jelly  to  deceive  yo'self  into 
eatin'  it.  Then  they  was  some  kind  o' 
round  paddy-cakes  of  meat  surrounded 
with  br'iled  toad-stools  which  I  tried  to 
summon  sufficient  fo'ce  o'  character  to 
taste,  an*  did  take  on  my  plate.  An',  of 
co'se,  they  was  the  usual  amount  of  orna- 
mental tricksy  sweet  an'  sour  things,  an' 
ice-cream  which  you  unearthed  from  a  hot 
chocolate  sauce.  That  was  nice,  I  must 
confess,  an'  Mary  Elizabeth's  delight  in 
that  one  achievement  was  worth  the  price 
o'  the  whole  dinner.  She  's  managed  to 
git  the  recipe  for  that,  somehow,  an'  we  Ve 
had  it  here,  thess  ez  good  ez  the  Waldorf's. 

No  doubt,  it  was  a  fine  dinner,  but  when 
we  had  finished  it,1  hated  to  give  extry 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  205 

trouble,  but  I  felt  sort  o'  empty,  not  bavin' 
partaken  of  mucb,  an'  I  asked  Mary  Eliza- 
beth ef  she  'd  be  too  much  humiliated  ef  I 
was  to  order  some  pancakes  an'  syrrup  an' 
a  full-sized  cup  o '  coffee,  which  I  done.  In 
fact,  I  got  a  pot  o'  coffee,  an'  drank  it  de- 
liberate. That  New  York  coffee,  even  at 
the  big  hotels,  is  inoffensive,  an'  I  needed 
mild  stimulation,  leadin'  the  strenuous  life 
the  way  we  was. 

Yas,  ez  I  said,  it  was  Sonny  thet  kep' 
a-writin'  to  Mary  Elizabeth,  eggin'  'er  on 
to  fetch  home  all  sorts  of  New  York  expe- 
riences. He  knowed  she  'd  enjoy  tellin' 
'er  friends  about  the  opera,  an'  the  Wal- 
dorf, an'  so  she  does.  I  notice,  sence  she  's 
come  home,  she  don't  resort  to  the  curio- 
cabinet  the  way  she  used  to,  to  make  talk. 

Yas,  sence  her  backset  with  the  last  baby, 
when  only  yo'  skill  brought  'er  th'ough  the 
purple  fever,  Sonny,  he  's  mighty  lenient 
an'  indulgent  todes  'er.  An'  you  know 
his  new  book  is  in  the  ninth  edition  a 'ready, 
so  thet  the  family  expenditures  has  come 
to  be  a  matter  of  discretion  mo'  than  of 
necessity. 

Yas,  we  was  all  sorry  for  him  not  to  Ve 
been  along,  but  you  see,  he  's  busy  on  an- 


206  SONNY  S   FATHER 

other  book,  an'  I  tell  you,  Doc',  the  produc- 
tion of  books  bears  consider 'ble  resem- 
blance to  child-bearin'.  For  the  last  ten 
years,  I  Ve  noticed  thet  when  Mary  Eliza- 
beth was  n't  gittin'  ready  for  a  baby,  why 
Sonny  would  be  confined  with  a  book.  You 
nee 'n't  to  laugh.  I  'm  serious.  He  says 
he  could  n't  no  mo'  leave  a  book  half  done 
an'  go  galivantin'  than  a  hen  could  leave 
a  settin'  of  eggs  an'  not  know  the  life 
would  be  out  of  'em,  quick  ez  they  got  stone 
cold. 

You  see,  life  is  life,  an'  the  book  thet 
ain't  got  life  in  it  ain't  no  good,  nohow. 
He  made  a  joke  on  that,  Sonny  did.  He  's 
great  on  quiet  jokes.  He  'lowed  thet 
nothin'  could  be  expected  to  have  circula- 
tion thet  didn't  have  life  —  an',  of  co'se 
circulation  is  necessary  for  a  book  to  do 
any  good. 

Yas,  he  's  still  hard  at  it,  although  he  's 
got  on  mighty  fast  durin'  the  family  exo- 
dus, so  he  says,  although,  from  the  number 
of  surprises  he  's  planned  an'  executed  for 
us  durin'  our  absence,  I  'd  think  that  was 
all  he  did. 

He  says  it  was  his  only  chance  to  ad- 
minister absent  treatment,  an'  he  done  it. 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  207 

He  treated  me  to  this  sep  'rate  po  'ch  on  the 
sunny  side  o'  my  room  an'  my  own  bath- 
room with  tiles  in  it.  I  reckon  he  'lowed 
we  'd  requi'e  mo'  luxury  after  we  'd  seen 
the  world.  An'  he  's  got  Mary  Elizabeth 
a  special  bath  'j'inin'  their  room,  likewise, 
an'  a  sun-parlor  with  a  out-side  place 
to  sleep,  an'  a  sort  o'  conservatorial  annex, 
all  on  her  floor,  for  her  favorite  plants. 
It  seems,  she  had  a  suspicion  of  what 
he  was  doin'  ez  he  wrote  her  she  better 
select  wall-papers  in  New  York,  ag'inst  the 
time  they  'd  be  ready  to  use  'em,  an'  she 
didn't  lose  no  time.  She  even  advised  him 
where  to  store  'em  away,  all  the  time  full 
o'  laugh,  knowin'  he  'd  have  'em  hung, 
time  she  come  home. 

An'  then,  once-t  awake,  she  described 
our  Waldorf  bath-room,  an'  'lowed  to  him 
thet  whenever  she  could  affo'd  it,  she  in- 
tended to  have  hers  done  like  it,  which  was 
mo'  of  a  knock-down  than  a  hint,  an'  he 
tumbled. 

Now,  that  sort  o'  absent  treatment  is  to 
my  taste.  Of  co  'se  when  we  come  home,  all 
the  papers  was  up  an'  the  parlor  set  re- 
covered with  the  stuff  she  selected  "  for 
storage,"  an'  of  co'se,  she  bought  a  few 


208  SONNY'S  FATHER 

things  to  conform.  But  she  ain't  no  reck- 
less buyer.  She  goes  slow  an'  sure. 

But  about  Sonny's  books,  ez  I  was  tellin' 
you,  we  was  standin'  close-t  to  the  book- 
stand there  at  the  Waldorf,  that  night  we 
put  up  there,  an'  a  young  man  come  up  an' 
what  does  he  say  but  "  Have  you  got 
'  Nature's  Overcoats,'  by  Deuteronomy 
Jones"  ?  I  don't  know  why,  but  would 
you  believe  I  suddenly  had  a  sensation  of 
goose-skin  all  over  me,  when  I  heerd  it. 

' l  Sure !  ' '  says  the  clerk,  like  ez  ef  he  'd 
'a '  been  ashamed  not  to  've  had  it,  an '  I  see 
him  hand  out  the  woods-colored  volume  an' 
take  the  dollar  an'  a  half,  an'  when  the 
man  had  started  off,  he  turns  back  an' 
says  he,  * '  Any  mo '  of  his  books  I  '  "  All 
of  'em,"  says  he,  an'  with  that,  he  enumer- 
ated five,  an'  when  he  stopped,  what  does 
little  Doc'  do  but  chirp  up,  "  Them  ain't 
all.  You  forgot  *  Thistles  an'  Armed 
Peace  >  an'  <  The  Dutchman's  Pipe.'  " 

Well,  sir,  I  wish-t  you  could  'a '  seen  that 
man.  He  thess  turned  an'  looked  little 
Doc'  over,  an'  I  could  see  myself  thet  our 
little  man  looked  consider 'ble  of  a  young 
country  greenie,  an'  says  he,  "  What  do 
you  know  about  those  books,  my  man  ?  ' ' 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  209 

' '  I  reckon  you  'd  know  about  'em, ' '  says 
he,  "  ef  yo '  daddy  wrote  'em !  ' ' 

Well,  sir,  with  that  he  took  the  boy  by  the 
hand  an'  he  led  him  into  the  office  an'  he 
called  a  crowd  an'  they  catechised  the 
little  feller,  an '  when  he  come  back,  he  was 
loaded  up  with  candy  an'  fruit,  an'  — 

What  's  that?  Oh,  no.  I  didn't  make 
myself  known.  I  'm  considerate  of  Sonny, 
an'  I  know  I  'm  thess  a  plain  man.  No, 
that  was  my  absent  treatment  of  him,  not 
thet  I  think  he  'd  want  me  to  feel  that-a- 
way,  an'  I  ain't  over-afflicted  with  undue 
humility.  Only,  I  'd  ruther  meet  strangers 
here  at  home,  where  I  seem  to  fit  my  socket 
than  in  the  glare  of  their  electric  lights. 

I  still  have  my  pants  cut  by  mother's  ol' 
pattern,  an'  when  I  'm  home,  I  don't  never 
think  about  it,  but  I  often  had  my  attention 
called  to  'em,  somehow,  walkin'  the  New 
York  streets.  The  only  man  to  give  me 
comfort  about  my  pants  in  New  York  was 
Abe  Lincoln,  an'  him  through  that  stature, 
in  one  o'  the  public  squares.  I  reckon,  like 
ez  not,  his  wife  made  his. 

Ain't  it  wonderful,  the  way  ease  an' 
comfort  an'  a  loose  fit  can  be  conveyed  in 
bronze?  Ef  the  time  should  ever 


210  SONNY'S  FATHER 

come  when  it  might  be  interestin'  to  have 
statures  of  the  father  of  Deuteronomy 
Jones,  the  nature-writer,  I  hope  they  '11  be 
satisfied  with  my  bust.  I  'd  change  my 
pants  now  for  my  livin'  family,  but  I  don't 
care  to  do  it  for  posterity. 

Yas,  we  Ve  had  a  great  time,  Doctor,  an' 
while  it  has  changed  my  views  on  a  few 
subjects  an'  made  me  mo'  lenient  in  some 
o'  my  jedgments,  it  ain't  no  ways  dis- 
turbed the  foundations  o'  my  faith. 

I  ain't  never  been  troubled  with  no  very 
rigorous  sectarian  doctrines,  ez  you  know, 
an'  even  ef  I  had  been,  I  'd  'a'  had  to  widen 
out  a  little,  after  findin'  so  much  good  in 
all;  an'  I  'm  prepared  to  take  what  I  find 
wherever  I  find  it,  ef  it  's  genuine. 

The  fact  thet  you  keep  my  rheumatism 
down  the  way  you  do  with  yo'  ol '-fashioned 
alopathic  salts  an'  ointments  would  n't  pre- 
vent me  lettin'  a  Christian  Scientist  aim 
any  quantity  of  absent  treatment  at  these 
j'ints  which  they  declare  ain't  swole  the 
way  they  seem  to  be  to  you  an'  me,  an'  I  'd 
take  a  mud  bath  or  an  electric  shower  or 
a  sun-soak  or  a  water-cure,  ef  their  advo- 
cates seemed  sane-minded  an'  didn't  re- 
qui'e  me  to  deny  the  evidence  of  my  senses 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  211 

which  may  be  misguided,  of  co'se.  But 
which  in  a  good  many  things,  seem  to  be 
faithful  guides,  so  far  ez  they  go. 

I  believe  in  absent  treatment  of  the 
Scientists  an '  mind-healers  to  the  extent  of 
not  abusin'  'em  behind  their  backs.  The 
avenues  of  the  sperit  don't  seem  to  me  to 
be  limited  to  no  one  sect,  an'  it  often  seems 
to  me  thet  one  will  git  a-holt  o'  one  side 
o'  the  truth  an'  one  another,  an'  it  takes 
'em  all  to  carry  it  along  —  or,  maybe  it 
does. 

I  can't  help  bein'  thess  a  little  on  their 
side  —  I'm  a-talkin'  about  them  absent- 
treaters,  now  —  I  say  I  can't  help  bein'  on 
their  side  when  the  newspapers  all  jump 
on  'em  when  one  o'  their  number  dies. 
Thy  seem  to  forget  thet  our  ol '  graveyards 
are  full  o'  the  patients  of  our  reg'lar  doc- 
tors. 

What  's  that,  Doc'?  "  Am  I  goin'  over 
to  'em?  '  Oh,  no.  But  I  want  to  treat  'em 
white,  that  's  all.  Any  sect  thet  dwells 
upon  the  beauty  of  holiness  an'  thet  chal- 
lenges every  soul  to  find  God  in  itself  has 
got  a  great  truth,  an'  there  's  so  much 
health  an'  well-bein'  in  that  one  reelization 
thet  we  might  forgive  'em  ef  their  heads 


212  SONNY S  FATHER 

gits  turned  a  little  an'  they  become  imbued 
with  the  idee  thet  they  've  got  a  corner  on 
the  Grace  of  God.  Listen  at  me,  quotin' 
terms  from  the  stock-market!  You  see, 
Doc',  they  ain't  the  first  sect  thet  has  con- 
sidered itself  especially  divinely  endowed, 
an'  that  sort  o'  delusion,  ef  it  ain't  carried 
too  far,  is  a  tower  o'  stren'th. 

The  thing  thet  we  seem  to  me  to  need 
most  is  to  unite  on  our  agreements  more 
an'  not  dispute  about  our  differences  quite 
so  much.  I  've  often  thought  thet  at  the 
last  day  the  number  o'  sheaves  we  bring 
in  might  be  mo'  important  than  what  kind 
o'  scythe  we  cut  'em  with. 

TV  ain't  no  reputable  religious  demoni- 
nation  thet  holds  any  doctrine  opposed  to 
brotherly  love  an'  human  helpfulness  an' 
ef  we  keep  busy  with  that,  why  we  won't 
find  much  time  to  dispute  about  predesti- 
nation or  the  Fo'teenth  Amendment  —  I 
mean  to  say  the  Thirty-nine  articles. 

What  's  that  you  say?  "  Did  I  know 
thet  01'  Mis'  Bradley  has  laid  aside  her 
specs,  all  th'ough  absent  treatment!  ' 
Why,  yas,  I  heerd  somethin'  about  it. 
Lemme  see.  Sarah  Jane  is  two  years 
younger  'n  what  I  am  —  an'  I  ain't  had  no 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  213 

need  o'  specs  for  a  long  time.  In  my  case, 
it  's  second  sight,  the  same  thet  my  pa  an' 
ma  enjoyed,  after  they  passed  the  sixty- 
nine  mark,  that,  an'  the  absence  of  treat- 
ment. Our  family  eyes  has  always  been 
reliable  an'  our  sight  ain't  never  been  in- 
jured by  no  ambitious  oculists. 

"  Don't  I  b'lieve  in  oculists?  "  Why, 
sure  I  do,  an'  I  b'lieve  in  doctors,  too, 
reg'lar  doctors  like  you,  but  I  'm  always 
happier  when  my  relations  with  'em  are 
purely  friendly. 

An'  surgery,  it  never  had  no  appetizin' 
effect  on  me.  I  never  like  to  think  about 
a  surgeon's  implements.  I  Ve  always 
thought  thet  all  doctors  ought  to  be  di- 
vinely endowed  with  a  sort  o'  professional 
second  sight,  an'  then  they  wouldn't  be 
liable  to  err. 

I  never  have  been  able  to  forgit  that 
doctor  thet  put  a  patient  to  sleep  with 
chloroform  an'  then  took  out  the  wrong 
eye  —  an'  scissors  is  bein'  sewed  up  in  un- 
conscious humans  every  day  o'  the  week, 
ef  we  are  to  believe  the  papers.  I  've 
sometimes  thought  thet  Dave  Baily's  wife 
might  'a'  had  sev'al  pairs  sewed  up  in  her, 
durin'  all  them  operations  she  loves  to  talk 


214  SONNY S   FATHER 

about,  an'  maybe  that  's  why  she  's  so  con- 
trary an'  argumentative. 

No,  I  '11  take  my  doctors  sociably,  when- 
ever I  can.  They  's  no  thin'  I  like  so  much 
ez  to  see  yo'  horse  comin'  down  the  road 
an'  to  know  I  '11  have  the  pleasure  of  set- 
tin'  down,  like  this,  an'  listenin'  to  yo' 
talk. 

What  's  that  you  say?  "  Ain't  our  sec- 
ond boy  thinkin'  about  studyin'  medi- 
cine? '  Cert'n'y  he  is,  an'  with  my  entire 
approval.  He  ought  to  've  been  yo '  name- 
sake. He  got  the  idee  from  you,  an'  I 
approve  of  his  so  'ce  of  inspiration. 

Some  things  are  necessary  evils  —  an' 
doctors  seem  to  be  one  of  'em,  doctors 
an'  "  healers  "  which  of  co'se  is  an  inter- 
change of  terms.  Ef  you  ain't  consider- 
able of  a  healer,  you  ain't  got  no  business 
to  be  a  doctor.  I  never  could  git  at  the 
consistency  of  that  word  among  the  Chris- 
tian Scientists,  though. 

Ef  they  ain't  no  sech  a  thing  ez  disease, 
I  can't  exactly  see  what  they  profess  to 
heal.  Ef  it  's  error,  an'  error  is  illness, 
then — ?  But,  of  co'se  I  'm  antiquated  an' 
maybe  slow-minded.  I  was  so  curious  thet 
I  paid  a  five  dollar  bill  for  a  soft-covered 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  215 

copy  of  Science  an'  Health,  an'  I  don't  say 
it  ain't  science,  but  it  ain't  healthy,  not 
for  me. 

It  's  like  sayin'  the  apostles  creed  an' 
the  ten  commandments  backward  —  to 
me  —  the  way  we  Ve  been  told  to  do  to 
git  to  sleep.  You  can't  say  it  ain't  all 
there,  but  —  well,  I  found  it  innocent 
enough.  The  only  thing  was  I  had  n't  been 
sufferin'  insomniously,  an'  didn't  exac'ly 
need  it.  But  for  them  thet  need  soothin', 
I  'd  ricommend  it  cheerfully. 

An',  when  all  is  said  an'  done,  we  have 
to  confess  it  holds  a  great  truth  an'  that  's 
why  it  's  got  sech  a  holt  on  some  people. 
It  seems  to  me  to  be  an  ancient  truth,  one 
o '  the  very  oldest,  a  leetle  fantastic  in  the 
way  it  's  put,  maybe. 

Of  co'se,  our  doctors  an'  preachers,  they 
don'  take  to  it.  None  of  us  don't  like  to 
be  interfered  with.  But  it  has  smoothed 
out  some  anxious  faces  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, an'  ain't  turned  nobody  vicious,  an' 
that  's  somethin'. 

Ef  it  had  n't  did  no  mo'  'n  to  set  po'  oP 
lame  Tillie  Fay  dancin',  I  'd  give  it  credit. 
What's  that?  Well,  s'pose  she  does  hobble 
thess  the  same !  She  says  that  's  only 


216  SONNY'S  FATHER 

reminiscent  of  error,  an'  she  does  look  so 
happy!  Give  the  devil  his  due,  Doctor. 
You  've  treated  Miss  Tillie  for  thirty  odd 
year,  an '  I  'm  not  criticizin ',  but  you  never 
set  'er  dancin'! 

Yas,  ez  you  say,  Po'  Molly  Skinners  did 
commit  suicide  in  a  spell  of  enthusiasm  in 
it,  but  you  ricollec'  little  Elsie  Seaman 
jumpin'  into  Bramble  bayou,  from  over- 
study,  preparin'  for  'er  graduating  an' 
none  of  us  can  ever  forgit  our  saintly  little 
Mary  Ellen  Williams  losin'  'er  mind  over 
that  scoundrel  jiltin'  'er  at  the  altar,  never 
turnin'  up.  Anything  thet  gets  too  much 
mastery  over  a  mind  is  liable  to  th'ow  it 
over. 

I  Ve  often  thought  thet  one  o'  St.  Paul's 
most  useful  precepts  was  moderation  an' 
temperance  in  all  things.  The  trouble  with 
us  humans  is  thet  we  run  so  to  extremes 
thet  the  very  word  temperance,  itself,  has 
come  to  stand  for  intemperate  abstinence. 

Mo'  than  one  man  had  upset  middlin' 
good  minds,  goin'  looney  over  inventin' 
perpetual  motion  thet  they  couldn't  invent. 
An'  I  ain't  shore  thet  our  Sonny  ain't 
amusin'  'isself  now  over  some  sech  ma- 
chinism,  in  his  garret  workshop.  He  an' 


ABSENT  TREATMENT  217 

the  blacksmith  has  consider 'ble  secrets  to- 
gether an'  he  's  always  fetchin'  in  some 
new  contraption.  But  I  ain't  oneasy  about 
him,  because  I  know  he  don 't  run  to  intem- 
perance. 

Who  is  that  drivin'  by,  Doctor?  Nev' 
mind  yo'  specs,  I  see.  It  's  Jim  Toland's 
buggy  with  his  third  boy  in  it.  I  'm 
feerd  Jim  's  porely.  He  sends  the  boys 
so  often  when  he  used  to  go  hisself. 

Talk  about  seein'!  Why  I  can  discern 
the  hue  o'  my  red  drawer  th'ough  the  mesh 
o'  this  homespun  on  my  kneecap,  ez  no 
glasses  ever  revealed  it. 

An'  I  see  other  things  mo'  clair,  too, 
Doc'.  I  often  seem  to  see  beyond  appear- 
ances, these  later  days,  an'  lookin'  th'ough 
the  criss-crossin'  of  some  o'  the  troubled 
faces  I  Ve  known  so  long,  an'  mo'  or  less 
misjudged,  I  see  deep  waters  of  patience 
an'  silent  endurance.  Why,  I  Ve  discov- 
ered mo'  than  one  clair  lake  of  peace  in 
the  waitin'  soul  of  an  ol'  black  man  with 
a  face  ez  wrinkled  an'  brown  ez  a  raisin. 

But  most  of  all,  I  see  beauty.  Every- 
where I  look,  it  seems  to  be  distributed. 
Of  co  'se,  it  has  always  laid  thick  along  our 
country  lanes  an'  over  our  hills.  We  sow 


218  SONNY S   FATHER 

it  an'  water  it  an'  gether  it,  an'  oftentimes 
unknowin'ly.  Yas,  I  have  a  feelin'  thet 
when  we  git  ol'  age's  second  sight,  ef  we  '11 
open  our  souls  to  the  vision,  we  '11  find 
many  a  revelation  of  beauty  thet  's  with- 
held from  the  eager  eyes  of  youth.  An' 
wi£h  that  an'  the  wireless  messages  of 
love  thet  come  to  us,  even  from  the  Beyond, 
I  ain't  shore  but  old  age  is  the  most  blessed 
season  in  life,  ez  well  ez  the  richest. 


VIII 

LIGHT 

AS,  that  's  thess  what  I  said,  doc- 
tor. These  three  weeks  of  so- 
called  darkness,  instid  o'  bein' 
an  eternity  of  affliction,  have 
seemed  more  like  a  full  revealment  of  light. 
An'  now,  with  them  bandages  off'n  my 
eyes,  I  take  a  new  joy  in  seein'  clairly  into 
the  faces  of  affection  thet  had  been  grad- 
yally  recedin'  from  me. 

Our  young  home-doctor,  ez  we  call  our 
boy  student,  he  had  a 'ready  diagonozed 
them  cobwebs  thet  I  kep'  vainly  tryin'  to 
bresh  away  from  my  vision,  an'  he  was 
extry  tender  to  me,  ef  that  's  possible.  But 
he  never  named  it  to  me.  I  reckon  a  reg'- 
lar  diagonozier  '11  be  a  great  safe-t-guard 
in  the  family. 

An'  then,  when  you  said  the  word  "  Cat- 
arac'  "  to  me,  I  wonder  do  you  ricollec* 
how  I  turned  my  dumb  face  to  you  in 
wonderment  ? 

219 


220  SONNY  S   FATHER 

"  Catarac'  thinks  I  to  myself, 
"  That's  a  waterfall,  a  catarac'  is,  an* 
the  pore  ol'  doctor,  he  thinks  my  sight  is 
bein'  drenched  out  with  secret  tears." 

An',  ef  you  remember,  when  I  got  my 
speech,  I  remarked  to  you  thet  I  had  never 
been  much  habituated  to  weepin'  an'  then 
the  thought  come  to  me  thet  like  ez  not  the 
catarac'  thet  you  discerned,  ef  it  was  a 
catarac',  might  'a'  collected  by  suppres- 
sion—  a  sort  o'  dimmin'  o'  the  vision  by 
the  wellin'  up  o'  back-waters  of  tears  thet 
did  n  't  git  shed.  TJifi£LJ!s-Jiojm^_to_  be 
a-plenty  o'  them,  you  know,  doc,  in  every 
deep  life.  An'  so  I  thought  thet  like  ez  not 
the  surgeon's  knife  might  be  needed  to 
turn  'em  into  specified  channels  scientific, 
without  drowndin'  out  all  adjacenin'  func- 
tions. 

An'  then  I  said  to  you,  after  consider 'ble 
of  a  reflective  pause,  said  I  "  Go  ahead 
with  yo*  dreen,  doctor,  an'  maybe  the 
swamp  may  be  redeemed."  But  I  confess 
I  said  it  more  in  resignation  than  in  hope. 
An'  after  that,  all  them  cobwebs  seemed 
mo'  like  sea-weed  to  me  —  an'  I  dreaded 
the  undertow  o'  the  great  waters  over- 
comin'  me,  when  you  'd  cut  down  the  dam. 


I)o  you  ricollec'  how  I  turned  my  dumb  face  to  you  iu  wonderment? 


LIGHT  221 

It  's  strange  how  the  nearly-blind  dread 
the  full  dark.  Why,  when  my  vision  had 
got  so  low  thet  it  was  little  mo'  than  a 
discernment  of  daylight  viewed  th'ough  a 
tangle,  I  cherished  that  little  glimmer  like 
ez  ef  it  had  'a '  been  full  sight  —  even  more, 
I  believe,  havin'  sampled  the  deprivation. 

But  when  it  come  —  the  so-called  black 
period  —  the  season  of  bandages  an'  pa- 
tience thet  I  'd  been  coward  enough  to 
dread  so  —  when  the  gate  of  strivin'  was 
shet  an'  peace  settled  down  over  an'  about 
me  like  a  soft-winged  bird,  bless  yo'  sweet 
life,  I  was  n't  requi'ed  to  set  in  no  gloom. 
Not  on  yo '  life ! 

I  expected  it,  but  — 

Well,  from  the  time  o*  the  ordeel  to  now, 
seem  like  either  they  was  somethin'  doin' 
every  minute  or  else  I  was  thess  steeped  in 
repose. 

First  thing  I  ricollect  of  was  a  little 
weariness  an'  sleep,  an'  from  that  on,  the 
only  reel  closin*  of  night  aroun'  me  was 
whilst  I  'd  be  in  slumber. 

You  see,  doctor,  with  all  its  blessedness, 
sight  is  mo'  or  less  of  an  interference,  the 
way  it  keeps  trivial  things  befV  a  person's 
eyes.  I  Ve  often  been  recalled  from  sper- 


222  SONNY'S  FATHER 

itual  visions,  in  my  clair-eyed  days,  by 
views  of  triflin'  things.  Why,  a  cow  in  the 
garden  trompin'  down  fifteen  cents  worth 
o'  sweet  peas  has  more  'n  once-t  obliter- 
ated great  vistias  of  vision  when  my  soul 
would  seem  to  perceive  the  glimmer  of 
streets  of  gold  an'  jaspar  gates  —  right 
here  on  this  po'ch. 

You  see,  I  Ve  set  here  in  meditation  a 
good  many  years,  sence  Life  offered  me 
this  chair  an'  surrounded  it  with  affection. 
Of  co'se,  sight  's  handy  in  gittin'  about  an' 
I  ain't  one  to  make  cheap  of  it.  A  man  in 
the  world  has  a  deprived  life  without  it, 
even  ef  he  don't  feel  called  to  choose  a  wife. 
An'  even  in  my  retirement,  I  welcome  its 
return. 

But  ez  I  say,  seem  like  quick  ez  daylight 
was  fully  bandaged  out,  I  was  allowed  a 
special  dispensation  of  light,  An'  tell  the 
truth,  it  affo  'ded  me  the  first  chance-t  I  Ve 
had  to  go  back  over  cherished  scenes  with- 
out interruption.  Them  first  days  when 
you  didn't  allow  no  conversation  in  the 
room,  an'  I  'd  hear  you  whisper  that  one 
word  "  temp'ature,"  why  they  was  days  of 
lively  joy  in  which  I  'd  walk  th'ough  halls 
of  light  an*  stroll  over  green  fields  an' 


LIGHT  223 

medders,  sometimes  fairly  skippin'  in 
merry  recovery  of  my  boy-hood. 

I  suspicion  I  must  'a '  been  keyed  up  con- 
sider'ble  for  I  ricollec',  although  I  'd  rec- 
o'nize  the  whisperin'  voice,  that  word 
"  temp'ature  "  would  sound  like  sup- 
pressed thunder  and  after  a  while  it 
seemed  about  seven  foot  tall  an'  I  reco'- 
nized  it  ez  a  pompious  policeman,  same  ez 
them  rigid  ones  at  the  New  York  street 
corners  —  only,  instid  o '  that  various  out- 
look an'  the  jesticulatin'  arms,  my  police- 
man would  keep  his  finger  on  his  lip  —  an' 
the  name,  "  Temp'ature,"  why  it  run 
clean  aroun'  his  cap,  so  you  could  see  the 
ends  from  behind. 

An '  I  soon  come  to  like  him.  He  seemed 
to  keep  all  the  crossways  clair  of  inter- 
ruptions in  the  journeys  I  'd  make,  so  I 
could  think  in  peace. 

That  's  the  way  it  seemed  to  me,  but  no 
doubt  I  was  imaginative  whilst  I  was  over- 
het  with  fever.  But  that  soon  passed  off 
an'  one  day  the  policeman  broke  into  a 
smile  —  an'  then  I  knowed  it  was  a 
dream  —  an'  he  seemed  to  go  out,  like  a 
candle.  An '  he  never  come  back. 

An'  then  the  heavenly  days  of  peace 


224  SONNY'S  FATHER 

ensued.  No  mo'  skippin'  an'  tree- 
climbin'  —  or  high-strung  acrobatteries, 
but  thess  sailin'  along  between  downy 
clouds  of  forgitfulness  an'  miraculous  dis- 
closures of  light  sech  ez  I  never  expected 
to  see  revealed  this  side  o'  Heaven. 

You  know,  Doc',  light  has  always  had  a 
great  place  in  my  life  —  thess  light  —  an', 
first  an'  last,  it  has  give  me  some  great 
experiences. 

Whilst  I  was  in  a  manner  depreciatin' 
eye-sight,  thess  now,  don't  imagine  thet  I 
was  extollin'  darkness.  I  only  want  to 
differentuate  external  eye-sight  from  vis- 
ions o '  the  soul  —  and  to  git  you  to  reelize 
thet  the  blind  don 't  need  to  abide  in  gloom 
an'  I  think  I  've  proved  it. 

An'  takin'  it  all  in  all,  the  radiance  o' 
these  dark  days  has  exceeded  all  the  expe- 
riences of  light  of  my  long  life-time.  An', 
of  co'se,  some  o'  the  best  o'  the  sights  was 
reproductions  —  I  don't  deny  that.  An' 
when  I  finally  come  to  the  time  of  release, 
an'  the  moment  arrived  when  I  opened  my 
eyes  to  recovered  vision,  well  —  ef  Heaven 
itself  is  any  sweeter,  Doc,  I  'm  afeard  I  '11 
never  be  able  to  stand  it  on  earth. 

Of  co'se,  it  was  a  great  occasion,  when 


LIGHT  225 

the  bandages  was  to  be  lifted,  an'  Mary 
Elizabeth  an'  Sonny,  they  was  bidin'  be- 
side me  —  an'  the  first  word  I  heerd  was 
"  Yes,  father,"  in  two  voices,  an'  the 
daughterly  hand  a-smoothin'  my  old  bald- 
spot  whilst  Sonny  stiddied  my  wrist. 

You  see,  they  was  bracin'  me  ag'inst 
possible  disappointment.  An'  the  pillers 
was  soft  under  my  neck.  They  had  opened 
up  the  winders  into  the  trees,  choosin'  the 
twilight  for  its  mild  light ;  an'  between  the 
chirpin'  o'  the  birds  an'  a  katidid  or  two 
an'  the  smell  o'  the  maginolias,  seemed  to 
me  all  the  heavenly  f  o  'ces  was  combined  to 
bring  me  resignation. 

An'  then,  when  in  place  o'  that,  I  was 
allowed  to  give  thanks  for  sight  restored, 
seemed  like  my  cup  o'  happiness  thess 
trickled  over  the  whole  place  an'  it  ain't 
dried  out  yet. 

I  was  regretful  thet  you  couldn't  be 
there,  along  with  the  ocular  doctor  —  thess 
for  companionship. 

Yas,  ez  I  said,  a  heap  o'  my  life's  great- 
est experiences  has  been  depicted  to  me  in 
light.  Did  I  ever  tell  you,  I  wonder,  about 
the  miraculous  vision  in  which  she  was 
first  revealed  to  me?  No,  I  know  I  ain't, 


226  SONNY  S   FATHER 

'cause  I  ain't  never  told  nobody.  It 
sounds  so  highflown,  I  'm  most  afeard  to 
tell  it  to  you,  even  now,  an'  yet  — 

The  fact  is  I  Ve  so  recently  seemed  to 
see  it  all  over  ag'in  thet  it  's  freshly  real 
to  me  an'  I  don't  know  ez  I  can  hold  it 
ag'inst  yo'  usual  curiosity. 

It 's  everlastin'ly  romantic  an'  high- 
flown,  doctor  —  an '  maybe  it  '11  reveal  an 
unsuspected  side  o'  my  home-spun  charac- 
ter, but  ef  I  'm  ever  goin'  to  tell  anybody, 
I  reckon  now  's  the  time  an'  place  —  an', 
of  co'se,  you  've  been  my  one  lifelong  con- 
/ident. 

I  ricollec'  allowin'  to  yon  once-t  befo' 
thet  fallin'  in  love  with  her  come  to  me  like 
a  clap  o'  thunder  out  of  a  clair  sky  but  I 
didn't  go  into  the  little  minutias  of  it. 

It  's  all  thess  ez  clair  to  me  today  ez  it 
was  then  an'  I  feel  newly  equipped  to  de- 
scribe it  to  you. 

You  ricollec'  that  ol'  culvert  thet  used 
to  be  between  sour  swamp  an'  Jim  To- 
land's  rice  meddersf  Well,  one  day,  it 
must  'a'  been  about  the  —  Yas,  it  was 
seventh  day  of  May  an'  every  feathered 
thing  nestin'.  A  lot  of  us  boys  was 
standin'  roun'  the  post  office  door  waitin' 


LIGHT  227 

for  Miss  Cordelia  to  sort  out  the  mail  — 
thess  befo'  sunset,  it  was.  Most  o'  the  old 
crowd  was  there  —  Sonny  Simpkins  an' 
Jim  Dooley  —  Jim  was  waitin'  on  one  o' 
the  Simpkins  twins  then.  Pore  Jim!  He 
died  befo'  he  signified  which  one  —  an',  of 
co'se,  Bud  Zunts,  he  was  there,  waitin'  tel 
the  last  one,  ez  usual.  'T  was  n't  long  befo' 
him  an'  Miss  Cordelia  up  an'  married. 

Well,  we  was  all  waitin'  an'  chaffin'  each 
other  ez  usual  when  I  chanced  to  look  up 
an'  I  see  what  appeared  to  be  a  girl  on 
fire,  standin'  on  the  arch  o'  the  culvert, 
ag'inst  the  sunset.  I  wish-t  I  had  descrip- 
tive language  to  image  it  to  you,  doctor. 
It  was  like  a  sort  o '  transformation,  not  to 
say  transfiguration. 

You  wouldn't  believe  thet  a  mortal 
could  'a'  lit  up  the  way  she  done,  lessen 
you  took  into  consideration  the  flamin* 
sunset  behind  'er  an'  the  color  of  her  hair 
which,  with  all  its  modesty,  had  consider '- 
ble  blood  pulsatin'  th'ough  it.  An'  I  re- 
collec'  distinc',  she  had  on  a  sort  o'  thin, 
reddish  organder  lawn,  mo'  thin  than  red; 
but,  sir,  with  the  sun  th'ough  it,  what  I  saw 
from  the  post  office  door  was  a  sainted 
martyr,  enveloped  in  flames,  an'  I  thought 


228  SONNY  8    FATHER 

of  Joe  Ann  of  Ark,  the  way  I  see  'er  once-t 
in  a  play  performance  thet  come  down 
from  St.  Louis. 

I  ricollec'  I  was  curious  to  know  what 
section  o'  the  state  of  Arkansas  Joe  Ann 
come  from,  in  ancient  days,  for  the  master 
of  ceremonies,  he  told  us  she  was  historic. 
But,  of  co'se,  in  hearin'  the  children  their 
lessons,  I  Ve  picked  up  consider 'ble,  an' 
I  Ve  been  glad  I  never  put  the  question. 

But  anyhow,  ez  she  stood  on  the  culvert, 
facin'  the  other  way  an'  lookin'  off  into 
the  sky,  for  about  a  minute  I  was  supersti- 
tious an*  half  looked  for  her  to  dissolve 
into  the  red  behind  'er  —  an '  she  would  n  't 
'a '  been  no  more  to  me  all  my  life  than  one 
o'  the  figgurs  I  've  seen  form  an'  crumble 
in  the  coals. 

But  I  stood  there  entranced,  ez  you 
might  say,  an'  I  didn't  glance  at  none  o' 
the  boys  because,  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't 
dast.  I  mistrusted  thet  they  saw  what  I 
saw  or  ef  I  reely  saw  it,  myself. 

The  entire  sweep  o*  the  west  was  a  meri- 
cle  of  sunset  an'  I  'm  always  still-mouthed 
in  the  presence  of  sky-splendor  like  that. 

But  whilst  we  all  stood  an*  looked, 
d'rec'ly  Jim  Toland,  he  says,  thess  casual, 


LIGHT  229 

whittlin'  a  althea  tooth-stick  ez  he  said  it, 
says  he : 

"  Wonder  what  Still-one 's  doin', 
standin'  there  on  that  culvert,  lookin'  up 
that-a-way?  "  That  was  a  nickname  the 
boys  had  for  'er,  * '  Still-one, ' '  thess  on  ac- 
count o'  her  bein'  sort  o'  sparse  on  idle 
conversation. 

"  Who?  "  says  I,  knowin'  full  well  who 
he  was  obliged  to  mean,  an'  havin'  that 
minute  reco'nized  'er  myself. 

"  Why,"  says  he,  not  payin'  no  atten- 
tion to  my  fool  question,  "  She  's  turned 
back  —  an'  she  's  comin'  this  way." 

An'  shore  enough,  she  was.  An'  all  the 
way  down,  she  walked  clothed  in  flame,  tel 
she  struck  the  shade  o'  the  Cherokee 
hedge  —  an'  until  I  see  'er  face  in  the 
shade,  I  never  fully  reelized  'er  ez  human, 
although  I  knowed  too  well  who  she  was. 

An'  when  she  come  down  to  where  we 
stood,  Jim  Toland,  he  says  to  'er,  says  he : 

"  Forgit  somethin',  Marthy?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Jim,"  says  she,  an,  with 
that,  she  wheeled  around  an*  started 
straight  back  without  another  word. 

Well,  that  incited  my  curiosity  an'  so  I 
up  an'  puts  in: 


230  SONNY  S  FATHER 

"An'  why  didn't  you  thank  me,  too, 
Miss  Marthy?  "  I  didn't  know  'er  then 
quite  ez  familiar  ez  what  Jim  did. 

Well,  at  that,  her  face  turned  ez  red  ez 
her  recent  garments  an'  says  she,  castin' 
down  'er  eyes, 

"  I  only  thanked  Jim  for  what  he  done 
for  me." 

"  What  has  Jim  done  thet  I  ain't?  " 
says  I.  "  He  ain't  lef  my  side." 

"  He  loosened  my  tongue  for  me,"  says 
she,  smilin'  like  a  veritable  seraphim.  An' 
then  she  went  on  to  explain : 

"  Whilst  I  stood  on  the  culvert  thess 
now,  I  made  a  wish  to  the  '  first  star  I 
see  this  night,'  an'  of  co'se,  after  that,  I 
dares  n't  speak  tel  I  was  spoke  to  —  less  'n 
I  'd  break  the  wish  —  An'  it  's  one  I  don't 
want  hoodooed."  Reddenin'  all  over  ag'in 
ez  she  said  it. 

An'  with  that,  I  butted  in  ag'in.  Says  I : 
"  Ain't  that  May  Day  comin'  acrost  the 
culvert  now?  She  could  'a'  spoke  to  you 
first,  ef  you  'd  waited. ' ' 

"  Yas,  I  know,  but  she  mightn't,"  says 
she.  "  I  saw  her  comin',  an'  that  's 
why — "  An',  sir,  with  that,  she  was 
turned  round  an'  gone.  An'  me,  follerin' 


LIGHT  231 

'er  figure  ez  she  went  along  in  the  shade  o ' 
the  hedge,  discerned  'er  ez  a  saint. 

You  ricollec',  that  was  thess  after  poor 
little  May  Day 's  misfortune  an '  lots  of  our 
older  women  would  pass  'er  on  the  boa'd- 
walk  an'  look  the  other  way. 

Well,  sir,  you  could  'a'  knocked  me  down 
with  a  feather.  We  stood  an'  watched  'er 
tel  she  met  May  Day  on  the  Culvert.  The 
sun  had  settled  pretty  low  by  then,  but  it 
give  us  them  two  child 'en  in  clair  outline  — 
one  head,  fire-lit,  a  glory  of  red,  an'  held 
high,  an'  little  May  Day's  fair  an'  yaller, 
but  bent  down  in  humility.  Poor  little 
May  Day  always  had  a  innocent  lookin' 
little  head. 

Well,  sir  —  ez  the  two  stood  there,  I  see 
Marthy's  hand  go  out  to  May  Day  an'  she 
drawed  'er  close-t  beside  'er  an*  they  stood 
still,  lookin'  at  that  star  together,  an'  like 
ez  not,  Marthy  was  recitin'  the  wish-verse 
to  'er  —  leadin'  'er  troubled  mind  into 
girlish  playfulness  an'  hope. 

Well,  that  was  the  beginnin'  of  my  in- 
somnious  nights.  I  didn't  sca'cely  shet 
my  eyes  that  night  nor  the  next  nor  the 
next  an'  I  couldn't  make  head  nor  tail  o* 
my  own  sessations  for  a  long  time.  Every- 


232  SONNY'S  FATHER 

thing  seemed  stopped  within  me,  an'  I 
thess  seemed  to  be  gropin'  th'ough  life 
like  a  fool,  for  the  want  o'  sense. 

I  s'pose  every  mortal  man  thet  discovers 
he  's  fell  in  love  with  a  saint  accuses  his- 
self  that-a-way  —  an'  most  men  does,  one 
time  or  another. 

Well,  Doc,  it  was  five  weeks,  I  ricollec', 
befo'  I  got  shet  o'  the  ha'nt  o'  the  flamin' 
saint  an'  could  reelize  'er  ez  simply  hu- 
man,—  an'  possibly  within  reach. 

An'  then,  of  co'se  I  got  courage  —  an' 
some  new  neck-ties  —  an'  started  to  walk 
beside  'er  an'  talk  superior  whilst  I  felt 
inferior  to  the  occasional  cocklebur  thet 
would  attach  itself  to  the  ruffle  of  her 
gownd. 

Me  bein'  so  much  older,  that  gi'e  me  a 
sort  o'  purchase  on  the  situation.  Seems 
she  had  looked  up  to  me  for  a  long  time 
ez  a  person  to  be  respected.  I  was  sort  o' 
stalwart  shouldered  an'  owned  good  horses 
but  I  was  always  monst'ous  hombly  an' 
conscious  of  it  in  feminyne  society. 

Still,  she  lookin'  up  to  me  the  way  she 
done  an'  acceptin'  my  opinions  ez  final, 
why  it  gi'e  me  a  sort  o'  eloquence  ez  we 
walked  an'  loosened  up  my  vocal  cords. 


LIGHT  233 

Ricollec',  I  finally  asked  'er  one  day  — 
after  I  had  told  'er  about  Joe  Ann  of  Ark 
an'  the  pantomime  in  the  sunset  an'  how 
whilst  she  was  wishin'  to  a  star,  she  looked 
like  ez  ef  she  was  listenin'  to  voices  like 
the  girl  in  the  show  an'  then,  summonsin' 
all  my  courage,  I  asked  'er  ef  she  could 
ricollec'  what  she  had  wished  on  the  cul- 
vert that  night  thet  was  so  important,  an', 
sir,  she  flushed  up  an'  then  she  paled  — 
an'  without  her  openin'  her  lips,  she  had 
imparted  to  me  the  requisite  amount  of 
assurance  an'  nothin'  but  the  stoppage  o' 
my  breath  held  back  my  proposal  o'  mar- 
riage, then  an'  there. 

It  was  a  convenient  place,  too,  down  by 
the  mill-dam  in  maginolia  lane  thess  where 
you  come  out  o'  the  lane  an'  view  the  mill- 
pond  where  them  chiny-trees  with  the  seats 
is  —  an'  the  moon,  it  was  friendly,  too, 
half -veiled  in  white  nubia  clouds  —  an* 
there  was  a  skift  there  —  an'  me  a  strong 
oarsman. 

But,  with  everything  favorable  that-a- 
way  I  thess  seemed  to  lose  every  faculty  on 
earth  exceptin'  a  sense  of  paralysis  an' 
suffocation. 

But  I  wrote  it  out  that  night,  formal,  an' 


234  SONNY'S  FATHER 

handed  it  to  'er  myself  next  day.  It  was  n  't 
much  of  a  letter  although  it  was  the  seven- 
teenth I  worked  out  that  night.  I  know 
because  I  burnt  sixteen  attempts  when  it 
was  done.  It  was  simple  enough  but  un- 
mistakable, an'  I  was  afeard  to  resk  it  in 
the  mail,  lessen  it  might  set  the  post  office 
afire  ef  it  didn't  git  mislaid. 

Well  —  ez  I  love  to  say,  Doc,  we  had  a 
happy  life  together,  an'  a  full  one,  mother 
an'  me. 

An'  that  was  the  way  life's  top  meracle 
was  revealed  to  me  —  in  light.  An'  en- 
durin'  all  these  years  whilst  I  've  bided 
here  on  my  po'ch  an'  grandfathered  her 
descendants  an'  mine  ez  they  Ve  gradyally 
populated  the  playground  under  the  oak 
yonder,  why,  they  's  been  times  when  I  'd 
seem  to  recall  snatches  of  that  scene  of  en- 
chantment over  the  culvert. 

But  it  was  reserved  for  the  one  period  of 
so-called  darkness  to  reveal  the  whole  vis- 
ion to  me  again,  entire,  an'  it  was  like  re- 
newin '  my  youth. 

Yas,  it  has  been  a  great  experience  in  the 
recovery  of  — 

What  's  that  you  say,  doctor?  "  Mem- 
ory? " 


LIGHT  235 

Well,  yas,  an'  no.  Maybe  'tis  memory  — 
memory,  an'  more.  Things  remembered 
always  seem  to  me  to  return  in  a  sort  o' 
procession  —  but  all  this  seemed  more  like 
pictured  visions  presented  to  the  eyes  o' 
the  sperit.  They  couldn't  have  no  con- 
nection with  my  bodily  eyes  an'  they 
bandaged. 

Why,  even  the  white  moonlight  of  Son- 
ny's birth-night  of  that  long-ago  Christmas 
has  come  back  to  me  vivid  in  these  band- 
aged weeks  —  with  all  the  stillness  an' 
wonder  of  it  —  an'  the  reelization  of  the 
Christ-child,  too. 

Of  co'se,  in  many  of  my  sweetest  excur- 
sions in  the  way  of  light,  our  little  Doc 
would  seem  to  be  beside  me. 

I  don't  claim  thet  his  dear  sperit  has 
ac-chilly  hovered  about  me,  although  I 
ain't  shore.  You  know,  in  life  he  dearly 
loved  the  back  o'  my  chair  an'  his  favoryte 
retreats  was  all  in  speakin'  distance  —  an* 
't  ain  't  supposable  thet  his  nature  would 
change  entire  all  of  a  sudden. 

It  seems  strange,  after  all  these  years  of 
uninterrupted  growth  an'  prosperity,  for 
Death  to  Ve  come  to  our  door  —  an'  made 
his  claim. 


236  SONNY'S  FATHER 

It  's  brought  the  other  side  mighty  near 
to  me,  doc  —  an'  the  little  grave  beside 
hers  is  sometimes  like  a  call  to  me  —  an' 
I  know  it  's  all  right.  But  I  do  miss  him 
scand'lous  —  the  plucky  little  man  —  an' 
I  often  recall  the  talks  we  'd  have  out  here 
when  he  'd  argue  with  me  an'  lay  off  his 
pernouncements  on  any  subject  so  final 
with  them  little  thin  wrists. 

You  ricollec',  I  used  often  to  compare 
him  to  a  bird  —  with  them  wiry  little  legs 
an'  hands  an'  the  way  he  'd  perch  any- 
where an'  sing  —  an'  his  friendliness  with 
trees.  An'  they  was  times  when  he  seemed 
to  feel  sort  o'  kinhood  with  birds,  hisself. 

Eicollec'  how  he  talked  about  j'inin'  the 
birds  in  their  carols  in  the  tree-tops, 
Christmas  a  year  ago?  An'  after  that,  one 
day  he  says  to  me,  says  he,  "  Gramper," 
says  he,  "  my  soul  's  got  wings  —  an'  bet- 
ter look  out!  Some  nights  when  the 
moon  's  still  an'  I  hear  the  cherubims 
a-bimmin'  away  in  the  high-skies,  an'  all 
the  choruses  is  filled  out  but  my  little  part, 
I  feel  somethin'  ticklin'  my  shoulders!  " 

An'  then,  lookin'  straight  at  me,  says  he, 
"  But  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  gram- 
per  —  so  when  I  feel  the  wings  start  a-flap- 


LIGHT  237 

pin*,  I  hold  on  tight  to  the  furnitures  an' 
grab  yo'  neck  —  an'  you  think  I  'm  thess 
affectionin '. "  An'  then  he  laughs,  the  lit- 
tle mite,  an'  says  he,  "  I  ain't  got  much 
of  a  voice,  nohow  —  not  the  way  it  comes 
out.  But  when  I  think  my  songs  they  're 
bully."  Then  says  he,  "  They  '11  thess 
have  to  wait  up  there. ' ' 

I  'd  think  he  'd  been  over-wrought  by  too 
rigorous  religious  instruction  ef  I  didn't 
know  better. 

No  —  it  was  meant  to  be  so.  He  was 
always  partly  removed,  so  thet  his  little 
feet  never  seemed  fully  on  the  earth. 

What  's  that  you  say?  "  Mary  Eliz- 
abeth '"?  Oh,  Doc,  I  can't  express  it  to 
you  —  the  way  she  an'  Sonny  met  it.  Of 
co'se  they  're  constituted  different,  him  an' 
her.  She  might  'a'  give  way  exceptin*  for 
the  need  of  sustainin'  him  —  an*  directin' 
the  children's  minds  Heavenward. 

But  they  's  a  look  in  both  their  faces 
sence  this  reverent  surrender,  like  ez  ef 
they  'd  seen  (rod. 

What  's  that  you  say?  "  Mournin' 
clothes?  " 

No,  indeed  —  she  ain't  clothed  'er  house- 
hold in  gloom. 


238  SONNY S  FATHER 

How  could  she,  an'  his  happy  sperit 
passed  upward  in  joy  an'  the  purity  of 
childhood? 

No,  Sally  Ann,  she  sent  over  a  lot  o* 
black  dresses,  assorted  sizes,  thet  she  'd 
gleaned  from  the  neighbors,  for  'is  little 
funeral.  Of  co  'se,  it  was  kindly  meant,  but 
to  our  thinkin',  it  would  'a'  seemed  like 
sac'elege  —  in  the  face  of  faith. 

Yas,  ez  you  say,  it  was  sweet  for  it  to  be 
Easter  Day  when  we  laid  him  away.  The 
old  cemetery  was  all  joyous  in  its  first  re- 
surrection green  an'  matin'  birds  called  to 
each  other  from  the  trees  on  the  slope 
where  we  made  his  little  bed.  An'  the 
town  child 'en,  they  united  with  ours  in 
fillin'  an'  surroundin'  it  with  flowers,  befo' 
they  went  home  an'  put  on  their  little  white 
frocks. 

It  was  a  scene  of  heavenly  peace  an' 
beauty  when  the  low  sun  lit  it  up.  An'  it 's 
all  right,  doctor  —  an'  I  ain't  dishonorin' 
it  with  no  rebellion. 

But  —  ef  I  thess  did  n't  miss  'im  so ! 

Yas,  they  've  planted  some  trees  there 
special  an'  Sonny  has  put  in  a  wr ought- 
iron  chair  for  me  —  an'  I  go,  occasional, 
with  the  child 'en,  an'  set  there.  But  I 


LIGHT  239 

don't  need  to.  Companionship  with  the 
dear  dead  ain  't  a  question  of  here  nor  there 
with  me.  But  it  's  sweet  for  the  child 'en  — 
an'  conduces  to  reverence.  It  seems  to 
give  death  a  place  in  life,  which  is  right. 

Seems  to  me  they  's  a  little  difference  in 
all  the  child 'en  sence  he  's  went.  An' 
they  's  a  new  look  in  their  young  faces  — 
an'  it  ain't  no  cloud,  neither.  It  's  a  new 
light,  an'  heavenly. 

I  Ve  often  wished  I  had  yo'  fluency  of 
speech  with  a  pen,  doctor.  I  can  write  an 
audible  hand  enough,  ef  I  could  think  o '  the 
words,  but  thess  the  idee  of  pen  an'  paper 
has  power  to  frustrate  my  thoughts  all  out 
o'  shape. 

An'  think  o'  me  bein'  the  father  of  a 
nachel  bo  ok- writer! 

I  've  sometimes  imagined  thet  maybe 
they  might  be  the  makin'  of  a  book  in  me, 
or  likely  it  would  n't  be  no  mo  'n  a  pam- 
phlet—  thess  puttin'  down  the  thoughts 
the  Lord  has  sent  to  me  here  on  my  po'ch 
in  amongst  the  vines,  in  all  these  years  — 
ef  I  could  write  it  out  straight. 

Yas,  they  's  other  things  besides  bumble- 
bees an'  hummin'  birds  thet 's  come  in  to 
me  here  out 'n  a  clair  sky  —  comfortin' 


240  SONNY'S  FATHER 

thoughts,  like  peace  doves,  have  flown  in  to 
me. 

An',  ez  I  've  said  befo',  even  when  I  was 
requi'ed  to  go  down  into  the  valley  o'  the 
shadders,  it  was  n't  one  of  gloom  to  me. 

I  've  always  been  given  a  reelization  thet 
every  shadder  is  shaped  in  light  —  not 
thet  that  fully  explains  the  benediction  of 
the  peace  which  we  are  told  "  passeth 
understanding" 


THE  END. 


AA      000251871    o 


